Inquisitor's Hunter
by IronSaint98
Summary: An Inquisitor's purpose is to seek out the heretic, the xenos, and the mutant in the Emperor's name. Giving their last in the service of the Golden Throne. A Spartan's single duty is the defense of Humanity. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium the Dark Gods howl in frustration as pure and faithful souls stand between them and the worlds of the Imperium. Ave Imperator.
1. Chapter 1

Friend and Foe

The shaking of the SOEIV brings it's stunned occupant back to full awareness with a jerk. Blinking away the blurriness in his vision the soldier takes in the brief flash of the planet that he was supposed to the dropped into. Instead of the towering mountains and silver cities of New Syracuse his eyes are greeted with jagged towers, their black flanks blistering with weapons emplacements. Confusion only has a moment to set in before the retro thrusters fire and the pod gets a royal kick from below. The rockets bleed momentum allowing for a "gentler" landing than could be expected.

His teeth clack together painfully as the pod slams into the pavement but he shakes it off without much difficulty. Too much rage, too much discipline, too much _experience_ is instilled in him to allow for drop-brain to take hold. Punching the door release and ripping his cut-down BR55 from the rack beside his seat he explodes from the pod. Superhuman muscles propel him through the open space towards a cluster of battered buildings. The closed door doesn't give him any pause as he simply lowers his shoulder and slams into it with all the force of a freight train.

Expertly rolling with the momentum of his dynamic entry he pops up on his knee scanning the room. His visor automatically activates the low-light setting bathing everything in a yellow outline. The bodies thrown throughout the room don't give him pause after seeing the wholesale slaughter of humans on a half dozen other worlds in operations just like this one. Slowly, with the poise of a hunting cat, he advances deeper into the dwelling. His form shimmers and seems to disappear with the blink of an eye controlled icon. Soft footsteps and a blip on his motion tracker bring him to a sudden halt.

Wraith-like he moves to the side of the hallway, tracking the faint movement on his HUD and with his own eyes. Dropping to a knee he considers his options for a moment before silently placing his rifle on his back, relying on the magnetic strip to keep it pinned there. Six inches of semi-serrated steel slides free of its scabbard sitting comfortably in his palm. The high-carbon steel blade is coated black to dull the shine making it perfect for night operations. Memories of wielding the blade to silently eliminate sentries and open holes in the enemy's lines flood his mind for a half second before his ruthless conditioning crashes back into place.

The shuffling steps of the contact reach his ears clearly as he creeps a little farther forward letting the shadows wrap around him like a shroud. In his wildest dreams, his worst nightmares too for that matter, he'd have never anticipated what comes around the corner. The most obvious thing is the face: what once could have passed for a human face is now running like melted wax, and green. Not tinted, but flat _green_. Flabby masses of flesh give the face a stretched appearance, beady black eyes glint with a feral hunger even as rotting teeth munch on a hunk of what appears to be flesh. The ring and pinky finger of both hands are fused together on the stock of a beaten and scorched rifle, every appendage ending in a black talon. Blood and spittle mixes and dribbles down the creature's chin as it gazes around the corridor searching for its next meal before it finishes the last.

The last thing the being hears is the _whoosh_ of displaced air before a white hot flash of pain spearing its brain from below. The corpse is lowered to the floor, the knife reverently wiped clean on the being's filthy shirt. The man regards the corpse with a certain morbid interest. But not fear. Fear was beaten from him long ago. He takes in everything: the mutation, the filthy clothes, the beaten weapon, and the strange symbols carved into its skin that make his eyes ach to simply look at. Shrugging to himself and sheathing the knife he continues on.

He keeps a closer eye on the bodies he finds as he clears the building room by room, eliminating another half dozen of the mutated things in a similar fashion to the first. Each one has different mutations: from insect proboscis mouths to scales growing in place of skin. The latter had increased reaction time and muscle mass, but nothing the man couldn't handle. Eventually satisfied that the building is cleared but for the corpses he decides to activate his suit's internal radio. His lips tighten into a straight frustrated line at the lack of signals the HUD displays before him. None of the available channels have UNSC designations making him slightly confused before he shakes it off.

' _Equipment malfunction,'_ he thinks to himself. There's no possible way that there are no UNSC signals on the whole _planet_ , after all the Covenant had just arrived over head.

"Wait," he mutters to himself and peers at the sky from a nearby window. Only now looking at the sky does he find what has been missing since he arrived: there is no cruiser hanging over the city. No Banshees scream through the skies in a hairball of a dogfight against Hornets and Longswords, no Spirits and Phantoms rumble over the streets dropping their hordes of zealous aliens. Instead all there is are dark grey clouds and the towering...buildings that dominate the skyline.

As far as he knew, and the briefing was pretty damn clear, New Syracuse was supposed to a smaller city with only a small cluster of skyscrapers in the center around the orbital tether. Instead there are insanely huge buildings stretching as far as the eye can see, their vague shapes standing sentinel in the far distance and the untold number of smaller buildings between them. A small spike of something that could be considered fear grips his heart as he withdraws from the window and accesses one of the channels available to him.

"This is Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6 to any and all UNSC forces please respond, I repeat. Any UNSC forces respond!" He repeats the call twice more hoping against hope that someone responds. The hissing of static sets his heart plummeting towards his boots. Sighing heavily he grips his rifle and heads into the hallway. A voice in his ear stops him.

" _Inquisi– Reymose to Sierra–we–ou,"_ an intermittent voice replies in a heavily accented english. Relief surges through the young man at the sound of something at least human.

"Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6 I read you but you are coming in weak. Repeat your last."

" _Dammit opera–clean up–e signal! There that's better. As I was saying, this is Inquisitor Reymose of His Holy Inquisition responding to your distress call. Just what do you think you are doing trooper? What is your location?"_ The voice carries the weight of authority and the young man responds immediately.

"Sir I was cut off during insertion and... missed my drop zone."

' _Not a lie, but definitely not the truth,'_ he thinks to himself.

"I have made contact with numerous mutated creatures, requesting rendezvous point." There's a moment on the other end of the line as the "Inquisitor" argues with whoever is with him leaving the young man to scan the street beyond with his rifle. A light drizzle begins to fall restricting his range of sight through the small scope, but it's still enough to pick up the sight of the deformed shapes moving through the street. Suppressing the urge to open fire with great difficulty he withdraws once more into the shadow wreathed room.

" _What is your current position?"_

"Sir I'm in some sort of the habitation, numerous hostile contacts are closing on my location."

" _Hmm, our set is picking up your signal from less than a kilometer away. That's ahead of our advanced units. Stay in contact and we'll scramble a squad your way."_ The Inquisitor's words relieve the young man for but a moment before a deep voice bellows something in a twisted language in the room below.

"Affirmative. Spartan Hunter, out."

The light drizzle had escalated into a full on downpour as the Inquisitor and his retinue swarmed down the streets. The carapace armored Stormtroopers in their scarlet and black uniforms clear the houses with the speed and precision that only lifetime soldiers can display. The shriek of hellguns echoes through the dead streets, flamers belching flames and turning the rain to steam. Chimeras painted void black with the Inquisitorial rosette picked out in crimson along their flanks add their weight behind the assault.

Trailing behind the column the Inquisitor himself observes every facet of the operation through the screens mounted within his command Chimera. Pale blue eyes take in every report, every single detail of the flowing battlefield. A hawkish nose is centered on his weathered face and his narrow chin is hidden behind a well kept goatee. Ornate armor is concealed beneath a black and red coat, the hilt of power sword peeking from beneath the heavy folds. A frown mars his face as he takes in the battle reports from the outlying squads.

There is surprisingly light resistance for being so close to the center of the uprising that claimed fifteen square kilometers of the city. The mutant hordes swarmed from everywhere and nowhere at once killing and eating the populace with equal fervor in their frenzy to take over the surface world. At first, the Imperial Reclamation forces met heavy resistance; the regiment of Cadian Shock Troops and the 3rd, 4th, and 7th Hydran Storm regiments that were deployed here were stalled for a day and a half before his troops arrived to break the stalemate. Even then the last two days have been filled with feverish firefights and bloody brawls in the dark.

Yet now…

"Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6 ETA of convoy eight minutes," the Inquisitor broadcasts calmly. This warrior on the other end of the line is the cause of the drop in enemy contact. Every bone in his body screams that this is an auspicious day. A day that can decide the fate of an entire planet in some cases. As an Inquisitor he has stood vigil over a hundred trials, put thousands of heretics and mutants to the sword. He's re-deployed whole army groups to suite his mission without a second thought, but the sudden spike of Warp magic in the air set him on edge. Coupled with this feeling he's getting now...one doesn't last as long as he has in his profession without learning to trust your instincts.

Something his headstrong Acolyte has yet to learn the limits of. Her hooded gaze sweeps over the same screens with a scowl, one hand latched onto an overhead bar and the other gripping her chainsword just a _little_ too tight. Brown eyes catch the light beneath the hood but leave everything but the full lips of her mouth hidden in shadow. Battle plate, once pristine with the Imperial Aquila shining in gold in the center, is stained with the ichor and filth of battle.

" _Affirmative. Be advised, increased enemy presence on my position."_ The utter lack of any emotion in the man's voice doesn't give the Inquisitor any cause for concern, after all many warriors choose to cut off all emotional attachment when in battle to spare themselves any lasting harm. But the casual nature that he refers to being outnumbered does seem to be a little...callouse for one man against an army.

"Copy that, just hold on a little longer."

" _Acknowledged."_

Hunter ducks under a ill-aimed stream of laser fire and pops back up. The BR55 spits a single 9.5mm round at supersonic speeds through another of the mutant soldiers' brain cavities. The creature collapses back into the arms of another creature that receives the same treatment. They join the two dozen bodies laying in the street in pools of their own fresh blood while another hundred waits in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. Briefly the Spartan wonders why they haven't rushed the building's flanks but he shoves that thought aside. Best not to tempt fate any further.

His aim jerks to the side as a squad sized group breaks from cover and sprints for the front door, clogged as it is with dead bodies. He glances once at his digital ammunition counter before taking aim. Eight shots are fired. Eight bodies drop. With expertise and speed far beyond his years his hands swap the spent magazine with a fresh one. A flick of his thumb releases the bolt chambering the next round and updating the ammo counter: thirty six more rounds and thirty six more lives ready to be taken. The cut down, specially issued rifle, scans for more targets. It's wielder's adaptive-plating aids in his effectiveness at dealing with the amateurish efforts of his enemy.

A timer in the corner of his HUD displays the estimated time until his reinforcements, as dubious as those were, arrive. He hasn't had time to think on his circumstances since the assault on his one-man position began. The only thing that has mattered is the enemy before him and the bullets in his magazine, or the blade in his hand. The inhuman level of marksmanship he has displayed has served to stretch his six magazines beyond what a normal human could have expected when faced with such odds. But then again he isn't a normal human: he's a Spartan. The sword, shield, and dagger in the dark of humanity itself.

With his second-to last full magazine seated he waits calmly for the next wave. Every sense is strained to the max to pick up the tell-tale signs of an approaching enemy. So it comes as no surprise to him when a blip on his motion tracker translates to the sound of the back door finally buckling inward. A wry smile splits his face as he leaves his perch by the window and places his rifle on his armor's back magnetic holster.

' _Took them long enough,'_ he remarks mentally and draws his M6/SOCOM and knife into either hand. In training he was rated as the top pistol and knife combat specialist in Bravo company, pick up by ONI only for his skill at hunting down targets like his name indicates. Slipping into the hall he waits by the staircase leading from the ground floor. The pounding of feet announces his enemy's presence before they emerge from the staircase. Hunter waits for them to emerge, letting three gain the landing before exploding into motion.

To the bug-eyed mutant who is on point it seems as if the shadows themselves turn against him for the briefest moment before a razor sharp knife opens his throat. The Spartan spins with the momentum of his strike aiming his pistol in the same motion. The second mutant takes a 12.7mm slug to the face, the exit wound forming a crimson leaf on the wall behind him. A fist drives the beaten shotgun in the third mutant's hands to the floor and plants the knife clutched in a reverse grip into her brain on the return stroke.

The suppressed pistol coughs three more times tossing a pair of corpses back into the faces of their comrades. With a diabolical grin the Spartan sheaths his knife and pulls a grenade from his pouch. A flick of the thumb primes the charge and an effortless toss sends it bouncing into the pack of mutants below. A startled screech precedes the thunderous _boom_ of the detonation. Blood and smoke flies through the air blinding the survivors.

The Spartan leaps into action firing single shots into each mutant with his trademark accuracy. His heart hardly increases its beating as he lays into his enemy with a cold detachment. Not an action is wasted, not a round ill-spent. Everything in him is a part of the most perfect killing machine ever created by man. Searing laser blasts streak across his vision making his visor polarize automatically for a brief moment. With lightning speed the M6 snaps up and fires the last rounds in the magazine in quick succession.

Holstering the spent weapon the Spartan kicks up one of the boxy rifles the mutants brought with them. Filth is smeared across the housing but the Spartan pays it no mind as he snatches it from midair and takes aim. The precise crack is a change from the booming report of his usual weapons and the lack of recoil throws his second shot off for a split second. Hunter immediately corrects hammering a flurry of incandescent lasers into the stunned mutants clogging the doorway. Their screams and the hiss of escaping steam fill the air until the laser rifle sputters and dies in his hands.

Without a second thought he drops the boxy rifle and retrieves his own from his back. The battle rifle booms twice punching through a thin chestplate buckled over a twisted torso. And then the wall explodes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Scions and Spartans**

Sergeant Falt curses his Lord for the hundredth time since they set down on this rock. The rest of his squad is spread out in an assault formation hellguns scanning for targets. The grizzled sergeant hates being the first squad into the fight knowing as he does that the point men are the first to die. But so far all that they've seen is the shadows of their foes retreating into the veil of the mist.

" _Whoever this guy is he's got the mutants by the nose,"_ Gears mutters over the squad channel. The ten stormtroopers are sealed into their carapace armor, masks and all, making the helmet mounted vox-sets the only way to communicate. The sergeant nods to himself as the sounds of fighting suddenly grow loudly. What he sees brings him up short. Mutants lay in the street in crumpled heaps where they fell. A pile of them clog the doorway to a now battered building. The sounds of dying scum and lasguns reaches his ears before a grenade blast silences it all for a split second. Then screams come back even worse than before.

A body is thrown through a shattered window trailing its own intestines.

" _What in the Emperor's name…?"_ one of the Stormtroopers mutters in awe.

"What is going on here sergeant?" a cold voice demands from behind the seasoned veteran. Falt whirls around to find the Inquisitor's acolyte staring him down with her chainsword drawn and purring quietly.

" _Something is in there with the mutants, and I don't exactly fancy our chances against it in close quarters,"_ he says flatly. The Acolyte merely grins, one that the Stormtroopers who have worked with her before are intimately familiar with.

"You have a grenade launcher right?"

* * *

The explosion sends the remaining mutants tumbling onto their faces screaming in pain as pieces of debris fly through the air at muzzle velocity. Hunter simply adjusts his aim, shooting the remainder before they can climb to their feet. Activating his photo-reactive plates he melts into the shadows never letting the muzzle of his rifle stray from the opening. One of the mutant's groans and pushes itself up on one arm.

The Spartan doesn't move to eliminate the threat keeping an eye on his motion tracker as a half dozen unknown contacts appear just outside. A searing beam of white light and a screech ends the stunned mutant's rise, and takes off its head. Hunter doesn't move as the contacts get closer. The first one enters, their armored form immediately highlighted red by his VISOR, a bulky rifle with a power cable attached to his backpack held in sure hands. Four more pile in behind him with the crimson lenses of their helmets gleaming in the low light. Each of them moves just as well as ODSTs that Hunter has served did and their armor certainly reminds him of those insane bastards.

But that's where the similarities end. Instead of the featureless black plating and silver faceplate their armor has decorations. A two headed eagle adorns their chestplates with a stylized "I" in the center of the eagle's chest. Their masks are carved to the likeness of skulls and the individual plates are trimmed in crimson. They speedily secure the breach with all the precision of a professional team completely unaware of the shadow watching their every move.

" _Clear!"_ a voice calls in the Spartan's ear making his eyes go wide in surprise for a split second. Apparently he had accidental access to to their inter-squad comms. He pays close attention to the voice trying to place the rough accent knowing that every piece of intelligence he can gather is crucial to anything that he might do in the future. An eleventh contact approaches on the tracker. Enhanced ears catch the sound of heavy boots crushing the debris of the now pulverized wall. A feminine figure clad in a swirling greatcoat and fine, if dirty, armor plating.

A bulky pistol is held easily in one hand, coils glowing at the top emitting an all-too familiar whine: a plasma weapon on idle with the safety off. Memories of green and blue streaks slamming into human flesh, burning through battleplate and flesh and bone. The screams of the dying and wounded as aliens slaughter the innocent on a dozen worlds. The Spartan's grip tightens on his rifle imperceptibly.

" _There's no one here ma'am."_

" _I wouldn't be so sure of that sergeant,"_ a feminine voice counters the man's. Hunter doesn't even think, he simply shifts his aim to regard the woman first and glares into her eyes from behind his helmet. The soldiers stiffen in shock as the woman lowers the pistol to take aim at Hunter's hidden position. The Spartan Rises from his position and deactivates his active camouflage, willing to wager that she could see through it. Five weapons swivel around to regard him, their charred barrels indicating yet more laser weapons. The Spartan doesn't blink.

"Drop the weapon!" one of the soldiers barks out as his team spreads out behind him. The Spartan takes careful note of their positions as the woman steps off of the pile of rubble that clogs the unplanned entrance. Cold eyes stare into his faceplate as if she could see through it. The Spartan makes no reply to the demand. A Spartan never surrenders his weapon.

"Identify yourself." This he does respond to.

"Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6."

* * *

Inquisitor Andron Reymose takes in the figure he had been speaking to over the vox with a wary eye. The figure is easily taller than the largest stormtrooper in his company by a full head in height, even if he is a little bit on the lanky side. The autogun held in his hands is of a reasonably advanced and elegant pattern. A golden visor covers the figure's face exposing nothing of the features within while the rest of his body is covered in green plates of what appears to be low grade ceramite laminated over a form of metal. While the Inquisitor is, by Imperial standards, a learned individual he is still just a human and thus has a limited well of knowledge to draw from.

The reactions of one Tech-magos Senioris Techla however are anything but reassuring. The, once, female Tech-Priestess seems to be just as stumped as he is about what exactly the stranger's armor is made of if the slight twitching of her mechadendrites are anything to go by. The man, for the Inquisitor can feel his thoughts, stands at rigid attention that puts any stormtrooper or Guardsman to shame. Every part of this man screams soldier, even his breathing is calm and collected and _disciplined_ to the extreme.

This is the kind of soldier one sends into suicide missions and _knows_ that he will come out alive on the other side, his objectives completed. The Inquisitor wants–no _needs_ to know where he came from. To that order he had his command group secure the surrounding block, both above and below ground, in order to interrogate this exceptional individual. His men counted no less than fifty mutants in the hab and in the street, twenty of which had been dealt with in close quarters by either a pistol or blade.

Stormtroopers might be expected to achieve such feats but often they suffer debilitating injuries. This man is uninjured without even a scuff in the paint of his armor to show for the intensity of the fighting.

"So, I'm going to be blunt because doubt you'll appreciate any subtle attempts at getting into your head and I frankly don't have much time to spend on you. Who are you?" The figure doesn't move. Not a finger, not a slight tilt of his helmeted head.

"Spartan Hunter B-226."

"And how did you get here?" Hunter clams up slightly, his lips pressing together a little harder as he considers how to explain that he _doesn't know how he got here._ How does one explain suddenly seeing humans in possession of laser weapons and fighting mutants on a completely different planet than he was supposed to be on?

"I...don't know. I woke up in mid-air and my pod was barely working. Where am I sir?" The Inquisitor sinks back into his chair with a frustrated sigh.

"You are on Syran IV, a Hive world in the Imperium of Man. How do you not remember how you arrived here?" the Inquisitor inquires with an arched eyebrow. It would be easy to lie and say one doesn't remember how they arrived. Afterall, damning evidence can be "forgotten" in many cases simply because the right person decided that it doesn't need to be brought to light.

"I was stationed on the _UNSC Dawn's Light_ and given orders to drop on New Syracuse. After landing I was to coordinate with the local forces and target enemy leadership. An enemy vessel made a jump just as my pod was leaving the ship and I was caught in the event horizon. Next thing I know I'm falling over your world in a mutant infested city," he reports in the clipped tone of a soldier. Reymose frowns at the obvious avoidance of using any actual names beyond his ship and the world he was supposed to be on. Muttering a brief prayer the Inquisitor exerts his connection to the Immaterium. The Spartan goes on guard seeing the man's eyes close and the temperature dropping rapidly in the room. Frost creeps across the edge of his armor triggering numerous warnings in his HUD.

Hunter's hand creeps towards the butt of his M6C still holstered on his thigh. Then his head explodes in pain.

* * *

"You have all been brought here for one purpose: revenge." That single sentence rings out through the air. Three hundred young children hang on the uniformed man's every word, their hearts burning with the fury of an orphan of war. Medals shine brightly on his void-black uniform a tall cap casting his eyes in shadow as he takes in his newest charges.

"You will be challenged here. Only the best will survive the training, and those of you who do will never be the same. But, I look out at all of you now and I see one thing that will win us this war and give you that thing you want: the will to win." Hunter strains his ears, burning every word into his heart. The _fury_ of seeing his home burn in the window of the shuttle after seeing his parents and sister shredded by the crystal shards fired by the alien weapons smolders in his chest. His small fists clench at his sides hard enough to dig his nails into his palms.

"You are humanity's best hope for survival and victory. You are the sword and shield. You will be... _Spartans."_

* * *

" _Move it! You lot couldn't kill a gut shot Grunt if this is the best you've got!"_ an instructor bellows as Hunter pulls himself up a frayed rope. His arms, lungs...his _everything_ burns with the exertion but he's kept fourth place throughout the whole obstacle course. Hauling himself up the last half meter he rings the bell and slides down, pushing the burning sensation of the rope against his skin out of his mind. His legs shake underneath him as he forces them to sprint the final stretch. He crosses the line and is immediately accosted by an instructor.

"On your face recruit!" Push-up after push-up. Then burpees, flutter kicks. And worst of all... _ten-count bodybuilders!_ Repetition after repetition until his muscles are jelly and they are sent to bed...after a two-kilometer run.

* * *

The kill-house rings with the sharp reports of MA5K assault rifles. The now slightly older children move through the simulation with the precision of veteran Marines. Short bursts hammer armored dummies in precise triplets. Hunter's eyes scan every corner, every crevice knowing that the others will be punished if he misses one target. He stacks on either side of a door with the rest of fireteam Delta. The Spartan trainees move fluidly, the largest of them booting the door open savagely.

Hunter is the first one in, rifle up and spitting lead at the first three targets he sees. His teammates are hot on his tail, even as his rifle jams. Without pausing he rips his pistol free of its holster on his thigh, thumb already clearing the safety as he brings his second hand up to support the weapon letting his rifle hang from the sling. The M6C spits heavy 12.7mm slugs into the final target pulverizing the head.

"Clear!"

* * *

 _Broken Arrow_ shudders under the Spartan's boots as he dashes for the drop-bay. The Charon-class frigate groans as another volley of pulse lasers hammer her armored superstructure. A low vibration tells him that a salvo of Archer missiles is screaming through the void in reprisal as he rounds the final corner into the bay. His olive green SPI armor sets him apart from the void-black of the ODSTs already waiting there. The Spartan snatches an MA5C from a rack on the wall and jumps into his pod hammering the door switch. He locks the rifle into its position next to his chair as the harness descends over his shoulders.

The door locks closed with a _hiss_ of compressed air and is swiftly shot from the belly of the frigate. The wounded frigate turns to face its enemy fully firing its MAC at the corvette before it can target the SOEIV pods. The two ships batter each other with the grey UNSC vessel narrowly coming out on top before a plasma salvo from a bulbous frigate strikes it amidships, boiling it in half. The pod shakes with the strain of reentry and Hunter grits his teeth–

* * *

Plasma fire streaks past Hunter's head as he leaps into a shell crater. His breathing is even as he emerges from cover for the briefest moment, MA5C shattering merrily. A pair of Grunts squeal and die tripping up an Elite. With a burst of speed Hunter charges the tall alien. He propels himself into the air and plants his titanium armored knee into the alien's jaws snapping at least one mandible with the impact. The alien stumbles back and roars in pain, not noticing that his shields have shattered as well. Thirteen 7.62x51mm FMJ projectiles punch through the armor plating protecting the alien's torso and pulverise the hard flesh on the other side. With a roar of primal rage Hunter flings himself headlong into the remaining aliens ignoring the plasma fire scorching portions of his armor.

His rifle roars in tune with his rage as he ruthlessly guns the aliens down. When the magazine runs empty he lock the rifle to his back and draws his pistol and knife. He moves so fast that the aliens haven't a prayer of acquiring a target. His body becomes bathed in the blood of a half dozen shades.

* * *

Hunter grunts as he bends his knees absorbing the impact of landing. A Jackal squawks before the Spartan's foot lashes out and kicks it from its perch on the Scarab's back. He absently chucks a primed grenade into the passage leading into the walker's command center and clears the outside with bursts of his MA5C. The grenade detonates with a satisfying crump leaving three crippled Elites and a half dozen dead Grunts. Single shots finish off the larger aliens and leave him to face the Ultra in command of the Scarab alone.

The alien snarls and ignites its sword with a flick of the wrist. The Spartan squares his shoulders and locks his rifle to his back. He draws his knife, twelve inches of high-carbon steel shining in the light of the holo-displays.

"I'm going to enjoy this…"

* * *

Inquisitor Reymose opens his eyes as the Spartan rises from his position on one knee. The tall man shakes away the residual pain and draws his pistol in a lightning quick motion that shocks the unaugmented humans. The Inquisitor is not surprised to be staring down the supersoldier's pistol and instead settles for studying the man behind the gun. His glimpse of the man's memories tell a wild tale, one that wouldn't be out of place in a fantasy novel.

But, a man's soul has no way of hiding the truth when the Inquisitor comes calling. Shaking off the residual wariness of using his powers he stares into the Spartan's eyes. Here is one that can match the most stalwart of Imperials in his will and conviction from a time _before_ the Emperor brought enlightenment to the realms of Man. The interesting armor, the use of autoguns, lack of typical Imperial iconography, all of it points towards a distinctly _non_ -Imperial individual. But after seeing his thoughts and his memories Reymose can confirm that he is not a heretic, merely a man out of time.

Reymose nearly snorts aloud at that thought. Whoever would believe him if he told them that the Spartan is from a time _before_ the Emperor. The ones that _did_ believe him would immediately try and burn him for an aberration against the Imperium or in retaliation for his kin's failure to keep mankind intact before the Dark Age. And so, instead of what his puritan brethren would have him do and burn him to less than ash, he gives him a simple proposal.

"I want you to join me."


	3. Chapter 3

Purge and Burn

Lasfire scorches the air boiling away the thin mists still stubbornly clinging to the city. Mutants screech and curse as they throw themselves into the maelstrom of lasfire and bolter shells. The 4th Hydran Storm regiment presses forward relentlessly. Clad in their grey urban camouflage fatigues and the thick Cadian-pattern flak plates painted in the same pattern they present a unified front. Their foes charge forward armed with chains, blades, lengths of iron bars, and the odd lasgun or slug thrower. The grim faced Hydrans march forward, shoulder to shoulder, lasguns spewing death as they march over the corpses and wounded.

Officers, armored and clothed in the same way as their soldiers, march in step with their men, leading from the front as their blood calls for them to do. The streets are soon filled with the twisted and scorched corpses of the mutant hordes. The Guardsmen press forward, not flinching when the man beside them takes a slug to the throat and falls to choke on his own life fluids. Squads break off the assault and clear buildings with precision and professionalism aided by storms of lasfire before rejoining their brethren. All the while the Sledgehammer of the Emperor crushes their foes in the open, the Inquisition moves in the shadows.

* * *

Hunter moves silently through the sewers beside the 'Tempestus Scions' of one Inquisitor Reymose. The sounds of a raging battle above him, even if it is changed in tune with the addition of laser weaponry, is familiar if not reassuring. His hands clench around the unfamiliar weight of the 'Hellgun' now held in his hands. He was unsurprised when he was told that his new allies lacked any 9.5mm rounds for his battle rifle and instead issued him one of their weapons. The backpack power source seems to be a little troublesome but he has already adjusted to it.

He was told that the weapon has the power to punch through a man with ease and that his ammunition is limited by the power setting that he has the weapons set to. While he appreciates the flexibility of the system he still would prefer individual power packs to power the weapon like the lighter lasguns and carbines. The squad of 'Scions' around him move like the ODSTs of his time, each foot set before the other with barely a sound and their eyes never linger too long on any one point. The sewer system is bare and utilitarian, a welcome reprieve from the garish gothic architecture that every other structure on this world possesses.

The occasional dog-sized, semi-scaled...rat scampers by in the shadows illuminated only by the VISR system in his helm. His companions don't react to the creatures as they scitter away into their burrows. All of them are thankful for their fully enclosed helmets as they follow the path beside the putrid mess that is a super-city's waste disposal system. The squad of commandos follows a map downloaded onto a wrist-computer, known as an 'auspex' here, through the maze of passageways recesses and nexus'.

An explosion blows a hole in the streets above them allowing a stream of light to pierce the murk and obscuring the passage ahead with a cloud of dust. The muffled sounds are suddenly more clear...as are the surprised screeches of the surviving mutants. Hunter doesn't hesitate as he takes aim at the first creature to emerge coughing at the dust. The Hellgun screams once punching the 'low' powered beam through the mutant's chest and into the next one's face. The Scions don't waste their breath as they form up on either side of the Spartan already blasting with their own rifles.

"Push forward men of the Imperium!" the squad's sergeant, Falt, bellows over the screeching Hellguns. Hunter has no problem with that. He stalks forward hammering each mutant often before the Scions can even recognize their presence. Hunter grunts approvingly at the Hellgun's performance as he boots aside the final mutant...minus half its head. Two hours later the squad, plus one, arrive at junction F-3-3-5/S-3: their objective. The massive door is covered in the unspeakable filth one expects to find coating every surface of an ancient and active sewer system nearly obscuring the massive block letters and numbers painted in a faded white across the surface.

"Gears get this door open."

"Aye Sergeant." A skinnier stormtrooper locks his Hellgun to the mag-strip on the side of the power pack and draws his knife. The others including Hunter form a perimeter, glancing over their shoulders every once in a while, as the specialist pries open an access panel with his blade. Hard crusted grime and rust pops free with the panel. A minute or two of fiddling with the corroded wires, and a good deal of curses regarding the door designer's parentage, and the door begins to grind to the side.

"Secure that door!" Half the squad splits off and whirls around to cover the door as if pulled by the muzzles of their weapons. Hunter joins them eyes taking in everything. The sewer of the T-intersection is much the same as the rest of it with a layer of filth and rust on every surface. The difference, however, is the fact that there are mutants occupying the floor like a band of merry hobos. With guns. And rusty knives. Once again the air is full of screaming Hellguns cutting a swath through the stunned and now panicked mutants. One mutant rises up right at Hunter's feet, sludge still dripping from its hand where it emerged from the muck beside the walkway. Gills flare on either of the creature's neck as it screams bloody murder, before blood erupts from its mouth courtesy of sixteen inches of steel planted in its lung.

Hunter wrenches the knife to the side carving a bloody path across the mutant's chest before kicking it back into the water. Turning he fires the Hellgun single-handedly lancing another sewage-loving mutant.

"That is nasty!" a stormtrooper remarks and proceeds to decimate another trio of mutants. Hunter nods in agreement and sheathes his knife laying both hands on his weapon once more. The mutants fire off a few ineffectual, and wildly inaccurate, shots as they scramble to full wakefulness. The Spartan has to wonder just _how_ they were sleeping through the massacre occurring over their head...as he guns them down with single laser pulses. No mercy is offered to the twisted creatures as lasfire cuts them all down, the Scions walking over their corpses without a second glance.

One of the Scions staggers for a moment as a slug fired from a bulky pistol slams into his chestplate without even denting the plate. Three burning white beams spear the wounded gunman's chest in retaliation and it falls back. Hunter weaves around a few wild las-shots missing the stunned looks from the Scions as he proceeds to perforate the attackers with a well placed volley from his Hellgun. The squad presses forward like an armored, light spewing juggernaut. The Spartan can admire the Scions' bravery. Never once do they flinch in the face of the overwhelming numbers arrayed against them. Never do they let up the pressure.

A grenade thrown by one of the mutants is swiftly punted back into the masses and detonates in a cloud of smoke and flying metal. And a few body parts. The Spartan simply grins to himself and adjusts the power setting of his rifle.

* * *

The final muck and graffitti smeared door is vaporized by a cluster of melta-bombs. The ionized metal particles are blown inwards and consume a goodly number of the defenders. The Spartan is the first into the gap moving at his post-human speeds, Hellgun spitting death. The Stormtroopers follow hot on his heels (read swiftly left in his dust) blasting every mutant that comes across their path. The squad is unsurprised to find themselves in a massive chamber occupied by what appears to be a horrid twisted congregation.

The mutants chat in their foul tongue, their voices twisted by their corruption. Both physical and spiritual. Foul symbols are painted across their bodies and decorate tattered banners. Bloodied skulls dangle from hooked chains wrapped around the gantries. The Spartan's world slows to a crawl as his adrenaline kicks in: the phenomenon known as "Spartan Time". His eyes take in everything. The face of the screaming mutant before him as his Hellgun spits a beam of light into its chest.

In the center of the room is the head of the snake: the leader of this mutated and debased cult of demon worshippers. Bloated with the strain of containing so much power the once-man's body is swollen to obscene proportions. Hands so fat that fingers can no longer grasp the lightest object. The head seems to simply melt into the neck and the body is so large that the stumpy legs can no longer support the bulk for even a single step. The exposed skin is painted over with runes so foul and drenched in evil that it makes the Spartan's eyes ache to look at them for too long.

What once might have been a priest's habit is now torn into filthy strips to preserve some form of dignity before his unholy congregation. Pig like eyes set deep into the swollen skull actually _glow_ with an eldritch light as the...thing exerts his power to levitate his bloated form off the floor. Runes carved into the stone floor and filled with what appears to be blood glow with the same corrupting light as the demagogue's eyes casting the entire room in its unholy light. Shadows seem to dance with a mind of their own behind their owners and Hunter's HUD mounted clock jumps between varying times with no rhyme or reason.

" _Interesting."_ Time snaps back into motion and Hunter blitzes forward. His skin crawls the closer he gets to the cult's leader but he ignores it. He's a Spartan, the sworn defenders of man and the end of all threats against them. An uneasy feeling is nothing compared to that simply indisputable fact. The Hellgun hisses as steam escapes through the cooling vents along either side of the barrel. The weapon spews death into the mutants each shot fatal in the hands of the supersoldier. He leaves the Scions behind, letting them fend for themselves, and carves a path through the ranks of the mutants.

He bursts from the ranks and takes aim at the leader, not missing the sickening grin on the figure's face. One fat arm rises and points at the Spartan, only his instincts screaming a warning saves his life. Faster than thought he throws himself to the side avoiding a bolt of eldritch lightning that freezes the ground behind him along with a cluster of unlucky mutants. Once more the Hellgun snaps up and a bolt screeches from the muzzle. The bolt of light spears the mutant in the gut...and only serves to widen his smile.

"Puny lapdog! Your weapons pale in comparison to my own!" A bolt of warp-fire strikes the spot where the Spartan stood but an eye-blink before.

"Behold the power of the Dark Gods! Your Emperor is but a corpse rotting on a broken Throne of a bloated and dying beast! We are ascendent!"

"Silence _Witch!_ " a booming voice cuts through the cacophony of combat. All eyes turn to see the imposing figure of Inquisitor Reymose standing on the upper gantries. His coat hangs from his shoulders but parts at the front to reveal his breastplate spattered with the blood of his foes. A power sword in his hand glows a cold blue, a bolt pistol trails smoke in his other hand. A squad of black armored figures stand beside him. Broad pauldrons protect their shoulders, crusader style helms bear the fleur-de-lis of their sect. Red vestments hang from their shoulders and a tabard bearing a sword wreathed in a black flame adorn their torsos. Hunter notes, oddly enough, that every member of the squad is female judging by the shape of the armor and their narrower, more graceful forms.

One woman steps forward, an immense chainsword clutched in her arms. Larger than her sisters, standing almost as tall as Hunter himself, she is clad in strips of cloth instead of the thick plates of her companions. Her brown eyes burn with a zealous fire as she regards the mutants coldly.

"The Emperor's will is with us. _Smite the mutant, the Xenos, the Heretic! The stars belong to man and man alone, for He declared it so! All ye' faithful sons and daughters of man rise up with His flames and purge your homes of the taint that plagues you! Only in death does duty end, only in holy flames is Chaos cleansed!_ " the Inquisitor intones raising his pistol to regard the cult's leader. His eyes glow a brilliant gold as his faith flows through him smoldering in the hearts of all present. Pounding boots announce the arrival of the rest of the Stormtrooper company, Hellguns humming like a swarm of demonic hornets.

As one the females in the strange armor snap to a firing position, the cold red eye-lenses plastered to their weapons sights. One ignites the pilot flame of a flamer cradled in her gauntlets. Nothing moves for a moment as everyone holds their breath. Hunter snaps from his trance. His Hellgun screeches once more spearing the unholy priest through the heart and he screams in pain. The air is filled with the blindingly white beams of Hellguns and the streaks of the thundering projectiles of the armored women. Blood and ozone penetrates the filters of his helmet as the fire picks up. The battle swiftly turns to a one sided slaughter as flames scorch through the ranks of mutants. Oily smoke rises from the screaming corpses as the women press forward firing single shots into single bodies.

The Spartan is surprised to see a secondary explosion from the large caliber rounds after they penetrate flesh. The explosive rounds send shreds of flesh and bone flying through the air with every impact and the wounds are invariably fatal. The Spartan is also getting very annoyed at how the creature leading the swarm is rudely refusing to die when he makes lethal shots. The wounds seal up after it is made every time he pierces the flesh.

"Please die," he pleads as he switches to fully automatic and hoses a charging group of mutants. His attention forced away from the leader he now lays into the lesser creatures, hoping that someone else might be able to deal with the creature in his stead. A screaming Eviscerator answers his prayer-not-prayer as the scantily clad woman from earlier descends on the mutants. The massive sword carves through two mutants with every swing, teeth screaming as they chew through the corrupt flesh and bone. A rogue slug finds its way into the Spartan's Hellgun leaving him no choice but to drop it and draw his knife and pistol.

The Spartan becomes a whirlwind of slashing steel, titanium clad fists, and gunfire. Mutants pile themselves waist high around the supersoldier almost burying him under their combined weight of numbers until–

"Purge and burn!" Flames suddenly roar to life bathing the mutants in hungry flames and scorching liquids. Flesh boils from bone and chars the remainder until naught remains but ash and lumps of bone. The Spartan hisses in pain as he leaps away from the conflagration. His eyes lock onto the armored woman with the flamethrower a slight indignant tilt in his shoulders. Solid gold faceplate stares into the twin crimson lenses of the crusader helm. The woman tilts her head as if daring him to challenge her actions for a moment before whirling and bathing another cluster of mutants with her weapon's angry flames.

The Spartan darts forward and plants his blade into a mutant attempting to flank her and then leans around her and fires a single shot that takes an unharmed creature in the face before it can so much as scratch her armor's paint. Using the mutant still lodged on his knife as a shield he whirls around and lets its body soak up a volley of las-fire. The body jerks in his grip as the super hot lasers tear into its flesh, while his pistol barks over its shoulder. 12.7mm armor-piercing hollow-point rounds slam into the soft flesh and hard bones of the mutant's skulls. Quick as thought Hunter flings the dead creature away from him...just in time to see the Inquisitor plant his sword in the cult leader's bloated brain.

"For the Emperor!"


	4. Chapter 4

A New Post

The stars: humanity's salvation and most deadly foe. It's airless wastes are home to the jewels of the Imperium's colonies, the ground her fortresses place their foundations, and the fields that it's crops are planted in. In the shadows cast by the gracefully dancing planetary bodies...that is where the danger lies. Those spinning chunks of rock and various metals man named asteroids after the very stars that they orbit conceal the sharks of the endless ocean. Jagged, dagger-like, propelled on streams of ionized gas these leviathans ply their paths in silence. Graceful and as gilded as a cathedral, the _Iron Heart_ slides from the shadow of the crater ridden moon.

The _Firestorm_ -class frigate powers forward on its oversized engines. The massive Lance mounted in the heavily armored prow gleams in the light of the not so distant star. The massive golden eagle catches the light and seems to catch fire...as does the crimson Inquisitorial rosette painted beneath it. The bridge sits in the tallest tower of the command spires, the captain reclines in his massive throne. He sighs deeply as the MIU feeds him data from his beloved ship's various systems. He can _feel_ the sensors as they track each and every one of the thousands of crewmen and armsmen through the life-support cogitators. He pays no special attention to the newest addition of his master's entourage where he hides in his private berthing.

* * *

Hunter doesn't know what exactly to think yet. His mind replays the images that he was shown in that final moment of the battle as the Inquisitor plunged his blade into the mutant leader's skull. The images of demons, twisted realities and desires clashing together in a miasma of colors, the laughing of four dark gods beyond anything that the UNSC had ever encountered…

"This was _not_ covered in basic…" he mutters to himself as he scrubs away at his pistol's internal components. His hands carry out the mindless exercise while his eyes stare at the far wall. The plates of his SPI armor are attached to the mannequin set against the back wall leaving him in his loaned fatigues. The uniform lacks any sort of regimental badge like the others do, and is made in an archaic camouflage pattern, but it makes him feel more comfortable than walking around in just his undersuit would have.

The rest of the stormtroopers, soldiers who he has rapidly equated with the ODSTs of his "universe", have kept their distance. Not that he blames them. After all, his abilities hardly qualify him as anything below exceptional and many would say inhuman and as such are off-putting to those who are more... normal. And from what he has been able to gather about the Imperium in whose service he now finds himself in they are anything _but_ tolerant. Oh they thanked him for his service and admired his skills. He was even thanked by the flamethrower wielding woman after the fighting had died down for having her back in the scrum. But he could see _it_. The suspicion, the distrust, and in some cases the utter _hostility_ that they all treat him with.

The Inquisitor seems to be the only one to trust him and that suits him just fine. After all he was used to being out of place except among other Spartans. With a sigh he reassembles his pistol and reaches for his BR55. The rugged weapon remains silent as the "tech-priest" forges more ammunition for the powerful slug-thrower. While the laser weapons used by his new colleagues intrigue him he has yet to be accustomed to them as he is with his own weapons. So like they say, it's best to stick with what he knows. The rifle is swiftly broken down on the cloth covered desk pushed against the far wall.

Experienced hands go over each part scrubbing each component down with solvent acquired from the ship's stores to clean them of the grime accumulated during firing. A rifleman is only as dangerous as his tools and his skills: and both need maintenance. The supersoldier carefully tends to his weapon before reassembling it and dry firing to be sure of its function and setting it aside. Now...he reaches for something new. While not as renowned a marksman as the Spartan-II Linda-058, he is a fair hand with a sniper rifle. And the Inquisitor is in need of a marksman's touch in his line of work.

The weapon is long, but not as long as the sniper rifles he was used to dealing with on a regular basis. An advanced optic sits on a rail mounted along the rifle's spine, miniature Aquilas stamped in silver on the turrets. The barrel is thick with the focusing crystals and acceleration coils needed to propel its charge. The needler's combination magazine-power cells sit on the bed in a neat row. The deadly needles made of a crystalized toxin gleam in the light coming from the two globes in the overhead. He knows, intellectually, that the weapon is dangerous. With it's two-stage way of firing a laser on a non-visible spectrum melts through armor leaving the needle fired a split second later to find flesh and deliver it's deadly load.

However, the weapon feels so...insubstantial in his hands. It's far lighter than it has any right to be in his opinion, almost feeling fragile. The old SRS99C-S2 AM he was used to weighed far more than this rifle, and had more punch for its kick. This thing has no recoil whatsoever, hardly even vibrating when the trigger breaks. Cautiously he begins breaking the weapon down, taking care to remember where every piece goes. The parts are all new: focusing crystals, magnetic coils, numerous different mechanisms to control the feeding of the crystal in such a way that it won't shatter prematurely, and of course the micro-capacitors used to control the flow of power.

Through it all he occupies the rest of his thoughts thinking on what he left behind. If this is indeed the future that he has been sent to...then that means they beat the Covenant back. His brothers and sisters had made a difference after all. But...what a future they secured for man. Superstition, treachery, assault on all sides from all quarters including within. This is what they bled for? He sighs and painstakingly assembles the rifle in his hands.

"What is left for me?"

* * *

The galley. The one place that Navy and infantry mix on a ship or on land. And unfortunately for Hunter, the only place that he can acquire food. But in a strange twist of fate no one spares him a glance as he steps into the line. Despite towering over even the largest man present the Spartan is ignored. None of the men and women at the table look at him as he sits down either. He wordlessly shovels the tasteless slop into his mouth at the same rate that every soldier and sailor learns to, mentally making a note of the fact that this crap has _literally_ no flavor.

Not even the unappealing taste of MREs is present in the grey sludge that the automated dispensers dropped on his plate. He hardly reacts as a group of women take their places around him. What he does however notice is that every pair of eyes is suddenly drilling into him. He glances up from his food as he swallows another tasteless morsel. His cold grey eyes meet the fiery chocolate of the woman across from him. Her almost perfect face is marred only by a small scar running across her jaw.

Dark hair is cut into a bob and her body is clothed in what appear to be armored robes. He looks back down at his food seeing nothing of interest until she clears her throat pointedly. With a near silent sigh he returns his gaze to the woman who stares at him expectantly.

"Yes?" he prompts knowing now that she wants more than just a seat at a table. She scowls at his plain speech and her inability to place the accent. She obviously doesn't like things she doesn't know like so many others in the Inquisitor's service.

"You are the one that the Inquisitor picked up on the last world? The one who tried to kill the mutant cult leader?" she asks, spitting the word cult with as much venom as he would Covenant. He nods and spoons another mouthful of slop past his lips. She purses her lips and shares a glance with the rest of the women. Her eyes narrow as if trying to see past some veil concealing his hidden intentions. Inwardly he sighs having had to deal with the same looks from a hundred thousand different pairs of eyes in the past. His youth, his size, his scars all attract unwanted attention to him. This is just another day in the life.

"Thank you for saving my sister." His eyes jerk back up to regard her in confusion. Gratitude? That is not something that he has ever been given. Just a protocol heavy "well done, hit the showers" before the next mission briefing. Being thanked for anything that he did feels… strange.

"You're welcome," he states and returns to eating thinking the conversation done. The woman has a different idea altogether.

"I've never seen a normal man, outside of the Astartes, move in the way that you do."

"I'm not normal. I'm a Spartan, albeit a lesser form of one." This explanation draws a few curious looks from the gathered women and the men that happen to be sitting near enough to catch the conversation.

"What is a Spartan?"

"A genetically modified supersoldier designed to protect humanity." Again the flat explanation draws more confusion.

"We already have the Astartes to protect the Imperium. Why would somebody create something which, beg your pardon, seems to be less than them?"

"The same reason Spartan-IIIs were created after the IIs had so much more success: we are able to be made faster and cheaper. Though the project has been cancelled, probably because Astartes were considered worth the time it takes to create them," he replies sticking to the cover story he was given by the Inquisitor and using his typical toneless inflection to keep it intact. Luckily for him they seem to buy it, likely preferring ignorance of some dastardly experiment of the evilly educated and twisted members of the Mechanicus. He finishes the rest of his meal in silence and returns to his room.

The Navy ratings pay him little attention as they conduct the various maintenance procedures needed to keep a ship like this working. Unfortunately for him...the scowling face of the Inquisitor's acolyte, or trainee as he had it translated into normal person speech, is attached to her body and rapidly approaching him.

"What are you doing here?" she demands, accusation heavy in her tone. Again he takes no offence here: soldiers are often blamed for things over which they have no control.

"I was getting chow ma'am. This is the quickest way from the barracks to the galley." Her eyes narrow suspiciously before she simply huffs and tries to push past him. Only to slam into a mountain of muscle plodding around the other side. The great hulking form of Gud, the Ogryn that the Inquisitor uses most often as a bodyguard, doesn't shift a millimeter when the well-built woman smacks into his front. Anger flashes in her eyes as she glares up at the much taller abhuman.

"Move aside beast," she hisses, one hand reaching for the hilt of her sword at her hip. The Spartan's hand moves to fast for the eye to see and pins the sword in its sheath.

"Not a good idea ma'am. He'll move, he's just a bit slow."

" _Kind of like you,"_ he thinks to himself snidely. Her glare immediately shifts to him and he can see her jaw clench a little harder. The Ogryn moves aside with a blank look on his admittedly ugly face. There is _nothing_ about an Ogryn that could be considered attractive to the everyday man. The Inquisitor's protege glares at the Spartan for a moment longer before smacking his hand from her blade and storming past. A passing stormtrooper with the stripes of a sergeant watches the whole exchange with weary eyes, having long recognized that when the lords and ladies play the little people beneath them are the ones that suffer.

Hunter resumes his trek back to his bunk without a second thought, distantly aware of the hulking form of Gud plodding along behind him. A glance over his shoulder finds the abhuman's face stretched in an innocent, if grotesque, grin and tiny eyes shining in admiration. Hunter merely shakes his head and continues on. Completely ignorant to the fact that he just gained the loyalty of the most faithful creature on the entire ship with a few simple words and actions.

* * *

Inquisitor Reymose sits quietly at his desk in his somewhat lavishly decorated room. The bare metal floor is covered in a soft carpet that deadens footfalls, the walls are decorated with pictures of Saints from millenium past, a small alcove in the corner holds a silver Aquila and a few incense burners trailing smoke from his earlier prayers. A pair of tall and wide bookshelves are heavily laden with old tomes containing history and knowledge on every subject that could possibly pertain to his work. A mannequin in the corner is covered in his, ironically, light carapace armor. Compared to the suit of Power Armor he has in storage it _would_ be considered light in both weight and protection. The data-slate in his hand glows softly in the equally soft lighting feeding him information about the latest happenings in the sub-sector.

The Inquisition is as wide reaching as the Imperium itself and just as diverse in how they achieve their objectives. Some Inquisitors like to have a personal army at their beck-and-call so that they may commence mass purges of whole cities if the spread of taint is deep enough, wiping the underhives clean of mutants and the other unsavory characters in orgies of violence and flame. Others are precise using a small team of skilled individuals to deal crippling blows to a cul or a Xenos' plans for greatness in His light. Reymose prefers a mix of those: using the tools he has at his disposal while also taking advantage of whatever assets just _happen_ to be laying around at the time.

Without meaning to his mind turns to the newest addition to his not-so-small entourage: the Spartan. The young man, for he could barely be a day over eighteen years old, is a familiar scenario. Robbed of his family at a young age and fueled only by a _hate_ of the things that did it to him. A story that so many who enter the Schola Progenium share. But the difference is that he was given so much more. Advanced arms and armor yes but they also improved on the human form, improved it. As fast and strong as a Space Marine neophyte and more experienced in the ways of war. A weapon in human form.

A weapon he has now secured for his own hand to wield. During his dip into the man's mind he saw many things: Artificial Intelligence serving loyally alongside their creators, an alien enemy that pushes Humanity to the very brink of extinction, and pain. So _much_ pain. He pities the Spartan, but that won't stop him from using him to the fullest. Pity and morals have no place in this line of work. The weak die, and the strong live. It's so simple. A soft knock on the door drags him from his reverie with a muttered curse.

"My Lord, the Astropaths have decoded a message meant for your eyes only," one of his aides calls out his voice muffled by the door. The inquisitor thanks him for the message and sends him on his way, eyes already scanning the message wafer. Those same eyes widen in shock and a slight glimmer of fear.

"Throne almighty…"


	5. Chapter 5

Of Man and Fate

The ancient woods are silent as pure white flakes of the softest snow gently settle across every branch, twig, and shrub. The small creatures of the forest remain in their deep winter slumber within their burrows. The priests watch the world become cloaked in winter's cold embrace from the windows of their fortress monastery. The warrior sisters of the Faithful Blade convent hone their skill. Sacred bolters chatter on the firing ranges and in the kill-houses, chainswords screech on full power as they hack into the training servitors. The monastery's central chapel rings with the voices of the faithful and a bronze bell tolls in the tallest tower

Unseen from all, undetected from even the most advanced sensors, a pair of crimson lenses observes form the shadows of a mighty evergreen. Jade armor clings to a lithe form, trimmed in gold and crimson jewels. The figure doesn't make a single move to indicate the presence of life, snow settles on the narrow shoulders and the sweeping helmet. A narrow bladed, but no less deadly, chainsword is clutched in one gauntleted hand and a strange alien pistol is held easily in the other. A cold wind rises slowly building its strength.

Snow whips around obscuring everything but still the figure doesn't move. Shadowy figures appear behind it slowly manifesting to reveal more clad in the same armor and armed in the same manner. Then different soldiers appear from the swirling ice: warriors in gold and blue, red and white, orange and crimson, and midnight blue. Without a sound an army marshals before the monastery walls. An unearthly screech rends the air cutting through the howling wind and stone walls of the fortress monastery alike with ease.

" _Holy Emperor, ye' guardian of man and bearer of the Holy Light. Your servants march to war once more bearing your light and fury before the xenos and the heretic. Our souls and hearts are yours, may our blood buy us this day so that the Imperium you forged will stand forever more. Ave Imperator_ ," a middle-aged woman intones as she leads her sisters through the cold halls beneath their home. Suits of power armor stand ready for their wearers. One by one each sister breaks off from the group and begins the process of dauning their armor. Ceramite sabatons ring against the stone floor as they march for the armory.

Rack upon rack of bolters, blessed flamers, and meltaguns decorate the Vault alongside piles of ammunition for each weapon. Sickle magazines and fuel tanks are parceled out in a well drilled pattern. Prayers are sung by the younger girls and the unarmed men of the monastery as their guardians march to war. In the garages, the mighty Rhinos, Immolators, and the mighty Exorcists roar to life as their chanting crewmembers rouse their machine spirits. Gunfire rings out across the battlements as the sisters and gun-servitors manning the walls engage their quickmoving foes. Bolters spit death into the snow storm guided by the thermal imaging sensor's of their bearer's helmets. Screaming disks rend the air and barrages of accurate missile fire slam into the walls driving many of the sisters into cover only to emerge and bring vengeance to their foes.

Yet still they press closer, ever closer, to the walls. Blood soon flows over the ancient stone, and the orchestra of war builds towards its crescendo.

* * *

In the depths of space a light flashes into being. A corona of energy painted in every possible color and many of those that are thought to be impossible, swirling in a maddening pattern that would drive a normal man mad. And from the depths of this portal into insanity the gleaming form of _Iron Heart_ springs into being, massive engines already propelling the ship into an approach angle towards the sole life-sustaining world. In the armory the Inquisitor's forces arm themselves.

Priests, of both the soul and the machine, mutter prayers over the men and women as they pull their weapons from storage. Hellguns whine as power flows into the deadly weapons, lights along their blocky flanks flickering. Grenades are raised carefully from the padded cases and secured about their armored persons. Knives, honed to a monomolecular edge, are wiped clean and sheathed with a sinister hissing of steel. The door hisses open revealing the void black armored form of the Spartan. All activity stops as all pairs of eyes swing around to regard the tall warrior in their presence.

Without a word he strides across the armory to a small locker pushed up against the farthest wall. The Stormtroopers take notice of the pistol and knife holstered on opposite sides of his hips as he enters a short code into the locker's keypad. The door pops open revealing his BR55 and the needle rifle, gleaming and deadly, sitting in small racks. The annoyance is blatant as he takes in the sight of purity seals affixed to his beloved battle rifle without his approval, and promptly rips them off. Some of them wince at the perceived slight against the Machine God but most just chuckle having long gotten annoyed at the Tech-priests and their seals themselves.

He removes the sniper rifle first and removes one of the magazine-power cells from the cabinet and slots it into the mag-well with a solid click. He doesn't chamber the first round for safety reasons and then locks it the magnetic clamp on his back. His hands quickly and efficiently store three extra magazines on his belt pouches before reaching for his battle rifle. His hands run over the gleaming instrument of death like it's the most precious thing in the world to him. He carefully slots the first thirty-six round magazine into its place and activates the electronics suite. The display flickers to life displaying a blue "36" in just the right spot for him to be able to see it without taking his eye from the scope. He sets the rifle off to the side and place the six accompanying magazines into the pouches across his chest. The stormtroopers feel a shiver run down their spines as that golden visor sweeps the room, black rifle clutched in those deadly hands, all of them feeling as if the eyes of the Demons themselves are glaring at them through that featureless mask.

* * *

Inquisitor Reymose stands at rigid attention before the dropships that will carry his forces to the world below. The bulky transports, square and ugly things, will each carry a platoon of the company and their Chimera transports through the airless void and down to their destination. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword and his eyes take in the frantic preparations with a practiced eye. He doesn't react when the Spartan takes his place behind and to the left of the Inquisitor's acolyte. Her scowl makes her opinion of their newest addition blatantly obvious as she tries to studiously ignore him. The constant glances swiftly break that illusion.

The Spartan cocks his head as he spots Gud waving like a child seeing their favorite uncle walk in the door. The hulking creature is now clad in slab like plates of black armor and carries a massive, drum-fed shotgun with an equally large bayonet on the end held in those massive paws that he calls hands. The Ogryn eventually stomps up the ramp into his own ship with the rest of second platoon as the engines begin spinning up. Massive turbines whine slowly building power until they scream like vengeful eagles. The Spartan merely activates the sound filters in his helmet, and promptly ques _**Stricken by Disturbed**_ to tune the rest of the world out.

As one, the Inquisitor and his revenue step towards the pitch black _Aquila_ -lander squatting next to the bulkier dropships. The ramps on every ship the cavernous bay hiss shut and their flight crews complete their final checks before the massive blast-doors begin to grind open releasing thin wisps of residual atmosphere into the vacuum. Like pepper ground from a mill, the dropships power into the void and plummet towards the winter locked continent home to the Monastery of the Faithful Blade.

* * *

The aliens press closer and closer to the walls in brief sprints through the vulnerable openings in the trees. Missiles, screaming bolter rounds, lascannon shots, and streams of superheated gas cross each other in mid-air over the now crater marked treeline. Bodies are strewn across both sides along with the flaming hulks of vehicles. The gunfire slackens as a wing of escorting Vulture gunships sweeps overhead spitting missiles in a wave of death. The sisters do not cheer as their foes are drive back from the barrage, they don't make a single sound as they consolidate their lines and pull their remaining vehicles back.

None of them look up as the four dropships descend from above bringing the badly needed aid. Instead they keep their eyes locked down range, fingers caressing the triggers of their weapons. There isn't a single shred of doubt of their enemy's return once they have regrouped; the Eldar aren't known for suddenly giving up without some hidden reason. The dropships flare their noses upwards to decelerate more quickly and lower their ramps before their skids can touch the ground. Chimeras and stormtroopers roar from the dark holds with their weapons already energized and baying for blood. The more elegant _Aquila_ releases the Inquisitor and his escorting group descend the ramp in a more sedate manner.

Hunter casts a critical eye around the battered monastery and it's battlements, easily picking out the concealed weapons emplacements and numerous firing slits in the buildings.

" _This place is as much of a fortress as a church,"_ he notes approvingly. His hands absentmindedly chamber a round with a sharp _snap_ of well oiled parts catching his companions off guard for a moment.

"Spartan you have permission to join in the defence on the walls," the Inquisitor announces as he strides for the central keep.

"Acknowledged," The Spartan replies and jogs towards the battered gates. The Inquisitor watches him run for a moment, before he turns towards the keep with the power armored females and his acolyte accompanying him. Hunter arrives at the gates just as one of the last Rhino transports, its ceramite armor dented and scorched from the rigors of combat, rumbles back through the opening. A Cannoness orders her sisters to pile sandbags before the gate once more. A glance at the melted hinges holding the gate open tells Hunter all he needs about why the gate hasn't been secured.

The supersoldier doesn't hesitate and lends a hand to the work piling the bags chest high and two deep to provide for the best amount of cover. The sisters don't speak a word to him as they take their places in the line under the baleful gaze of the Razorback Rhino variant's twin-linked heavy bolters. Hunter doesn't give this any thought preferring instead to simply focus on any targets that might appear down range. The small scope on the rail of his rifle has a 2x magnification scope and brings the now shattered and burning treeline into sharp focus. He arches a brow behind his helmet at the sight of the aliens facing him across the divide, taking in their sweeping helms and bright armor schemes.

"And I thought the Covenant had a shitty color scheme…" he mutters just loud enough for his companions to catch it.

"I have no idea what this "Covenant" is...but their uniforms sound bright," one sister remarks from behind her bolter's sights.

"That...is one way of putting it. At least these things don't squeal."

"They do when they are on fire," one sister remarks helpfully as she adjusts the nozzle on her flamer. Hunter can't help but notice when she...caresses the weapon's frame like a beloved pet. The Spartan subtly shuffles away from the flamethrower wielding battle sister and resolves to never bringing up the words purification, alien, or fire while near them if he can help it. Soft flakes of snow begin to fall as they wait for anything to happen, a thin blanket of white forming on their shoulders and weapons. Not a single member of the garrison shifts keeping their vigilance even as their gear is repainted by nature herself.

Without warning or even a shifting shadow a flurry of hissing disks hammers into the Imperial lines. Hunter curses and ducks under a stream of the disks before popping up and finding the blue-gold armored alien that fired at him. His BR55 barks a three round burst that slams into the alien's chestplate where the human heart would be located and is rewarded with a splash of crimson. Missiles scream over head and slam into the battlements raining chunks of stone down on those manning the gate.

The Razorback's weapons spew a stream of mass-reactive high-explosive shells into the woods pulverizing all they come in contact with. Hunter's rifle barks in short bursts as he acquires target after target, putting each one down with the ease and precision that Spartans are known for. His eyes widen behind his visor as he sees something that he never expected to bear witness to: a hundred women armored in white with crimson manes waving from their helmets armed with swords and pistols charging headlong into a prepared defensive line. And surviving.

"Howling Banshees!" one of the sisters yells and suddenly the rate of fire picks up. Hunter still picks his targets but is rapidly frustrated when they seemingly dodge out of the way just as he's about to fire without breaking stride. They fire their pistols in short but not inaccurate bursts that either spark off of armor plates, sink into them, or find weak points and shred the vulnerable parts beneath them. Battle Sisters fall with their throats ripped open and their lifeblood staining their armor. Hunter curses as the aliens get closer and closer screaming all the while.

His ears start to hurt more and more the closer they get, a headache beginning to pound in the center of his skull. He shakes it off with a grunt as they are suddenly in his face with inhuman speed. He spins around an overhead slash and repays his attacker with a burst to her flank, 9.5mm slugs shattering the thin white plating and rattle around her insides. A burst of shuriken fire shreds his cover and he duck beneath the line of fire. A figure hurdles the sandbags and his rifle barks again catching the alien in the leg with a startled cry. One of the Battle Sisters finishes the wounded alien with a burst of bolter fire before whipping around and gunning another one down. Hunter leaps to his feet and fires a burst into a charging alien's face.

Instinct warns him to duck a split second before a blade whistles over his head. His foot lashes out catching the alien in the gut and driving her back from him long enough to bring his rifle to bare and fire a burst into her gut. Crimson splashes back against his armor as the round punch through the light plates of armor. A flicker at the corner of his vision alerts him to his next attacker...a moment before a flash of flame consumes her. He lets the Battle Sister, who is now cackling maniacally, finish off the first alien and instead empties the last of his magazine into a charging squad sized contingent. When the bolt clicks open as the last round finds its home in the third Banshee's chest he simply drops the rifle and draws his pistol.

Before the first Banshee can acrobatically hurdle the, now leaking, sandbag barrier he has the safety off and the his finger squeezing the trigger. A 12.7mm round is no small caliber handgun, in the twenty-first century it would have been identified as a .50 caliber even if it is _just_ a pistol. The monstrous handgun round at such short range finds a place in the leading Banshee's eye. His free hand draws the long knife from his hip and holds it in a ready reverse grip as they close. Time seems to slow as leaps forward to meet them with the astounding speed that Spartans are known for.

* * *

Olavara feels her eyes widen as the Mon'keigh leaps his primitive barrier after killing one of her sisters. A solid gold visor glares at her and her sisters as they charge fearlessly through the storm of fire. It takes her a heartbeat to notice how much _faster_ this one is than the other Mon'keigh on the battlements and those that stomped forward to face them in the fields with those _ugly_ box-tanks. His feet hardly seem to touch the ground as he lands before his pistol, a sleek black thing, spits a large slug into another sister's throat sending her corpse to tumble to the ground.

Shock is quickly burnt away by rage as she approaches the Mon'keigh, forgetting the pistol in her left hand in favor of closing and spilling his blood _personally_ as reparation for so many dead sisters. To her shock, once again, he dodges her strike with the ease that only one of the Eldar should be capable of. His knife comes up and carves a deep trench in another sister's leg before he spins and fires a round into another's chestplate only to see the fat slug flatten and shatter against the tough plating. He doesn't stop, never hesitating, moving with a fluid grace that matches the Banshees blow for blow.

He doesn't meet them blade-to-blade knowing that their power swords would cut through his, admittedly well made, knife like hot steel through butter. Instead he weaves around them flowing like a river around each strike as if he had been training to fight beings that were his superior in every way all of his life. Then he turns to her for a moment and she sees her reflection in that golden mask, that terrible mask that sees everything yet gives up nothing, then his armored boot lashes out and slams into her side hard enough to have cracked her armor. She doesn't scream, and her war-mask shelters her from the fear that would no doubt have ravaged her, but she does feel the impact and the sickening _crunch_ of her ribs cracking beneath her battle plate.

And as she tumbles away leaving her remaining sisters to battle this _creature_ , for it could not be Mon'keigh, she can't help but feel a little bit of... _fear_ leak through her mask.

* * *

Hunter doesn't think, doesn't feel, as he lays into the alien swordswomen. His knife plunges in between the plates of armor, single shots from his pistol throw them off just enough to save him from their savagely quick blows and allow him to retaliate. The slide locking open gives him no pause as he simply releases the slide and holsters it in the same motion before trapping a wrist in an iron grip with the now freed hand. His foot slams heel first into the now exposed midsection cracking the armored plates and sending the alien tumbling away from him.

The knife carves through the air and then the thin undersuit protecting the alien woman's neck. Crimson splashes across his armor before he slides to his left avoiding a lunge from behind on instinct. He spins, in a move that would no doubt have been seen through by another Spartan, and delivers a crushing back-knuckle strike to the alien's helmeted head sending her sprawling. He doesn't view these warrior women as mothers, sisters, or daughters: they are warriors as well, and deadly ones. A woman who has the potential to fight as well as a man should be allowed to _if_ she can attain and maintain the same standards _without_ demanding that they change to suit her. And as far as he can tell these women _exceed_ even the highest standards of the ODSTs, nearly as good as Spartans. _Nearly._

The Battle Sisters, momentarily struck with awe at his performance against the Eldar, redouble their fire. The remaining aliens retreat leaving the bodies of their fallen behind, the vengeful guns of the Faithful Blade. Hunter merely watches them go, replaying every battle he has ever been a part of and the end result: dozens of fallen brothers and sisters and a retreat from alien guns. This is one of his only victories, and yet he does not know how to feel about it, knowing that they will come again and again until they get what they want. He glances down at the alien that he merely knocked unconscious having picked up on the slight increase in breathing when she came to.

"Don't move, wait until nightfall to make your escape. I won't tell anyone you're. I hope you all leave before I'm forced to re-earn my name." With his piece said he begins to turn back to the fortress only for a croaking voice to stop him.

"What...was your name?" the alien's voice has a strange accent to it no doubt due to this being a second tongue to her but it retains that musical quality that speaks of an elegance and refinement that no human woman could ever be bothered to try for. The question, therefore, must be the result of a pain addled mind but not one unworthy of being answered.

"They called me Demon."

* * *

 **A/N: I know some of you are going to question why I didn't go over the reason why the Eldar are even attacking the fortress but rest assured: next chapter will be focused on the Inquisitor and his acolyte and quite possibly...a chapter focused on Gud? On an another note I made it through the last of the, generally agreed, hardest weeks of ATT: week 7 with a 92% on the test. In another four weeks I will begin nightschool and thus have less time to spend on writing but rest assured that I will try to update on Sundays.**


	6. Chapter 6

Of Saints and Sinners

The Imperium of Man has endured for ten thousand years as a religious oligarchy. Every facet of daily life, from making the morning caff to working the fields, is focused on venerating one being above all others: the Emperor. It should come as little surprise then, that there are many dozens of saints of both major and minor importance to the average man and woman. Inquisitor Reymose can't help but think that _maybe..._ they could use a little less reveration if all hallways have to be lined with their images in this monastery. Busts, intricate statues, oil paintings, and of course massive tapestries depicting the Saints of the Imperium from the Primarchs to the most recent canonization of Saint Atremisia on Armageddon. His boots and the sabatons of his companions ring against the old flagstones as the intricately carved doors grow in his vision.

"Why would the Eldar be concerned about a Saint's final resting place?" the Inquisitor wonders aloud as comes to a stop before the door, knowing that none can answer. The eyes of the Saint stare down at him, a slight smile pulling at her lips as if patronizing a young child's artful imaginations...something that he does _not_ appreciate in any way shape or form. Why is it that Imperial artists must always try and make the beholder seem so inferior to the art itself? Why can't they give the impression of being a hero's equal, for at their core every saint and martyr is a flesh and blood human with only love for the Emperor in their hearts?

He sighs and places a hand on the door handle pushing it open with a gentle nudge. The Saint's resting place is as beautiful as she was in life. Light shines down from above through the stained glass window depicting her final act in burying her sword in the chest of a vile Chaos Sorcerer clad in only a nightgown on the walls of the planetary capitol. Her sarcophagus, carved into her likeness, resides in the center of the before a carved statue of the woman herself blade planted into the earth and head bowed as if in prayer. A profound sense of peace washes over the party as they stride into the sanctum, their footfalls subconsciously lightening as if to preserve the sanctity of the crypt.

The Inquisitor's coat rustles gently as he drops to a knee before the sarcophagus and prays. His whispered prayers join those of the Sisters beside him rising into the still crypt air even as the sounds of battle rise beyond the walls. The prayers never raise in volume, never increase their measured pace, never let a note of fear creep into their tone. Unbeknownst to the faithful a light begins to take shape before them, starting as a pinprick and slowly growing to take human shape. The being of light seems to smile for a moment not too dissimilar to a parent displaying pride towards a child.

An arm dainty and feminine, completely devoid of the shape so common to those of a martial bearing, reaches out and touches the Inquisitor's brow. He gasps as knowledge floods his brain in a wave of searing fire. The pain of the knowledge transfer is nothing to him as he opens his eyes to behold _her_ face. The very Saint in whose crypt they now kneel. She smiles kindly at him and then she disappears in a blinding flash...leaving a sword in her place.

* * *

Inquisitorial Acolyte Andrea is not having a good day. Her gleaming silver bolt pistol booms over and over again sending those deliciously painful shocks up her arm with every discharge. The fat mass-reactive shells slam into an Eldar Guardian's chest plate and crack through the vile xenos metal to detonate amongst his innards. Only instinct and luck allows her to bring her chainsword up in a guard as a Striking Scorpion in his signature jade plating attempts to hack through her neck with his own screaming blade. A volley of bolt shells from an accompanying Battle Sister hammers into the agile warrior before he can bring his shuriken pistol to bear.

The air heats around her as Squad-three makes its presence known in a storm of lasfire. The black armored stormtroopers advance between the wrecked tanks littering the second gate entrance forming a kind of barricade. In her mind she knows that the Eldar are soon to retreat having no taste for the attrition warfare a siege is so infamous for, but right now she curses her master for not allowing her to come into the monastery with him. The fevered, close-range firefights are a double edged sword.

On one hand: the Eldar can't dodge the devastatingly powerful Imperial weapons at such short range and are forced to rely on their much lighter armor plating and speed. On the other: the Imperials can't keep the range open as well and are often forced into brutal and costly melee confrontations. Andrea curses foully as another of the damned xenos steps into her path and swiftly brings a shuriken catapult to bear. Her pistol snaps up almost as fast but not fast enough to–

 _Crack-crack-crack!_

She blinks as a trio of holes open up in the alien's chestplate sending the blue and gold armored figure sprawling against a burnt up Rhino. A quiet thump announces her savior's presence. A scowl is quickly plastered across her face as the Spartan deactivates his camouflage suite revealing all of his six-foot three bulk. The autogun in his hands trails smoke from the muzzle as he approaches her with silent steps, something that should be impossible for something _that_ large.

"Are you alright ma'am?" his slightly distorted voice asks as he scans their surroundings for more threats. She nods tersely and stomps off after the stormtroopers, not acknowledging the armored figure at her side covering every angle she misses with his rifle. She absently notices that the sounds of fighting have died down by now as the order to withdraw to the monastery's walls is passed through the vox-net. The Imperials retreat back towards the gate like a metal flower closing its petals, guns bristling outwards even as the gates swing firmly shut depriving the Eldar of ready access to the corpse strewn courtyard. The Spartan sighs taking in the bodies of his comrades and enemy alike, knowing that his side of the defense only avoided similar losses thanks to his presence.

Andrea sighs heavily feeling the familiar crash of adrenaline leaving her body but remains standing straight. One must never show weakness to their underlings, one of the few lessons her father managed to impart on her before he was slaughtered at the gates of the family's keep by a horde of Orks. The Schola merely compounded that lesson and gave her the skills she needed to put the fire burning in her soul to good use. Her ruthlessness, her dedication, her skill all of it springs from the ashes of her family home like the phoenix of the ancient Terran legends.

A stormtrooper from squad-four waves her over from his kneeling position beside a vox-set, one hand keeping the horn pressed to his ear.

" _Iron Heart_ picked up a half dozen Warp portals near the edge of the system ma'am. We know they're not Eldar but they aren't responding to their hails either." The acolyte frowns darkly and tightens her grip on her sword.

"Warn him to be careful and to not reveal his position until he is sure of their allegiance. We can't afford to be trapped on this world because of a reckless engagement."

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

In the void of space the _Iron Heart_ remains vigilant probing the vacuum with its powerful sensors. Every pair of eyes on the bridge is glued to the screens as the Captain orders a slight course correction that would both bring the bulk of their sensors to the fore and their massive Lance cannon.

"Steady as she goes lads. No need to panic until we see something," the Captain states calmly, deceptively calm. His eyes flick over the state of his Lance as it comes to full power, the massive weapon sending vibrations through the bowels of his beloved ship. His eyes remain plastered to the central screen linked to the sensor suite, by the Omnissiah's will, just waiting for the first positive return. And then he gets it.

"Emperor preserve us…" his sensor operator groans as the servitors linked to their stations begin feeding data. Three small contacts on the leading edge of the formation are without a doubt escort class vessels with three bloated transports lumbering behind. But the signatures' characteristics are the most worrisome part: they indicate Apostate-class heavy raiders: those used by the Arch Foe to harass Imperial shipping lanes and deliver cutting blows during fleet engagements. One of them would be no trouble to the _Iron Heart_ because of her enhanced range and speed, but three...that's pushing it. The Captain heaves a sigh.

"Send a message to the Inquisitor that we will head to the Naval outpost at Ingrid-IV and return with reinforcements. Helm! Full forward thrust! We're going straight through their formation!"

* * *

The Inquisitor and those with him don't move all eyes locked on one thing: the sword that suddenly appeared on the sarcophagus' lid balanced impeccably on the very tip of the sheath. They all recognize the blade having seen three examples of its likeness in the last ten minutes alone. The pommel is forged in the likeness of a screaming eagle, miniature rubies gleaming in place of eyes, and the grip is wire wrapped and gleams bronze in the sunlight. The crossguard stretches out like the wings of a great bird of prey with each feather wrought in gold plated adamantium. The sheath is a plain leather affair with a simple bronze collar engraved with several words in High Gothic.

"Does anyone have an explanation other than 'the Emperor's will'? Because...I've got nothing," the Inquisitor says breaking the silence at last. His mind is still hazy with the images that the Saint, for there is no other person it could have _possibly_ been, implanted in his mind. The single sentence that she said is enough to send shivers down his spine at their importance.

" _The Emperor has his Demon, now he needs his blade."_

The image of Hunter, clad in his armor and covered in blood, standing at the head of a formation of men holding the _same fracking sword as the one in front of him_ sends the Inquisitor's heart hammering. And what's worse is what he and those with him were facing: the hordes of Chaos. Demons of every shape and size and every alignment from every one of the Dark Gods.

' _But there is hope,'_ that treacherously optimistic voice in his head reminds him and for once he agrees with it. He's seen what the soldier, the Spartan, can do when faced with supposedly insurmountable odds.

"I believe the Saint intended the blade to be used my Lord...but by who?" one of the Sisters, Grea he thinks, wonders aloud.

"She intends it for...the Spartan." The cringe immediately following is well earned.

" _ **WHAT!?"**_

* * *

The Captain sighs in relief as his battered ship limps away from the Chaos formation. A bit of pride is shining in his chest at the knowledge that his ship has crippled not one but _two_ enemy ships in a single pass and destroyed utterly a transport vessel carrying no less than a battalion's worth of troops. As the distinct whine of the warp drive builds throughout the ship he mutters a prayer for every sailor who died in the pass. Only a single lance beam had made it through the void shields but it was enough to carve through the armor and several decks. Hundreds if not thousands are dead and many more injured, but the _Iron Heart_ is still here.

The heretic vessels had too much momentum behind them to turn about and pursue the Imperial frigate and so continue on towards the planet. The _Iron Heart_ has survived to carry the message, but until then those on the ground are alone. The Captain says one more prayer before the warp swallows his ship once more leaving just the faintest wisp of power behind.

* * *

The bulk transports breach the atmosphere on massive pylon engines that belch smoke into the crisp air. Snow is kicked up under their approach and the exhaust flames swiftly melt the remaining snow banks turning the large meadow into a swamp as the ramps lower on rickety hydraulics. The berserking cultists within don't think twice about leaping from their transports and promptly sinking half an inch into the ooze...and quickly falling on their asses when they can't adjust fast enough. Their hoots and howls rend the air like a pack of rabid dogs on the trail. Hundreds of them poor from the transports and form ragtag groups that _faintly_ resemble company sized contingents the Imperial Guard favors.

Their equipment is a _far_ cry from standard issue: autoguns, lasguns, blunderbusses, axes, lengths of iron bar, and chipped knives along with a host of other unrecognizable garbage that someone might try to pass off as a weapon. All of it is filthy and painted with the eye aching symbols of Chaos, not limited to being _carved_ into the cultist's flesh either. Ragged banners decorated with skulls of all sizes, species, and ages are paraded around as each "company" declares its ultimate allegiance in the structure of the warband. As the final "companies" are unloaded a different craft descends from the heavens.

Boxy but _much_ more maneuverable than the other ships and bristling with weapons this one screeches in like bird of prey. The angular crimson craft angles in for a landing and the jeering crowds of Cultists fall silent, every pair of deranged eyes locked on this single craft. A flaming demon's skull imposed over an open book is emblazoned on the flank of the craft, arcane runes surrounding the emblem as if forming the center of a ritual. The ancient landing skids gently cushion the deceptively graceful craft and hiss as they accept the massive weight. The world seems to hold its breath as the ramp mounted in the nose slowly lowers with a hiss of released gases.

The Cultists prostrate themselves before the figure beginning to emerge from the cavernous hold, grinding their foreheads into the mud in their effort to keep their eyes averted. A keening wail that contains the vaguest semblance of words rises from their throats as a heavy tread rings out across the meadow. A massive shadowy figure appears in the yawning ramp, curled horns rising from its head. Gleaming red eyes scan those present taking them all in like a lord and his cattle. A sickening chuckle reverberates around the things chest as it emerges into the light.

" _I'm coming...Brother."_


	7. Chapter 7

Shortcomings of Foresight

" _How could I have been so foolish?"_ The same thought reverberates around the delicate skull of Autarch Taenar as his grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. The shaped wraithbone groans under his powerful grip as he takes in the stubbornly strong Imperial garrison that his warhost has failed to take. _Again._ The presence of the strange Mon'keigh with the strange helmet certainly threw a few of the more zealous of the Aspect Warriors for a loop when he was able to match the Howling Banshees in hand to hand with seemingly no effort. Not even the gene-bred Astartes could have boasted such a thing in their bulky armor.

This one is plated in something more similar to the so called "stormtroopers" that the unaugmented Mon'keigh tote as their "elite", and is as fast as an Eldar with those devastating fists and blade. The original goal may now be well beyond their reach if the Mon'keigh defences can continue to hold against their assault and with the detection of the servants of Chaos arriving there may well be no hope. The only option is, and he can't believe he is even considering this, is to...work _with_ the Imperials.

"Autarch, the corrupted ones ar on the move. What shall we do?" the exarch of one of the Dire Avenger shrines inquires where he leans against the trunk of an old tree. The warrior's cerulean armor stands in stark contrast with the soft white of the snow and the nearly black bark of the surrounding trees marking another disadvantage against them: their armor is simply _too_ colorful! It's kind of hard to sneak through a stark environment when dressed as a rainbow of colors. The Autarch, one who has walked several of the Warrior Paths, sighs and takes in all of the options remaining to him. Option one: withdraw from the battlefield and hope that the Imperials have the strength to fend off the doom rapidly approaching. Stranger things have happened.

Option two: harass the servants of Chaos with skirmishing tactics before retreating. This one would cause more Eldar deaths but be that much more gratifying and placate the Exarchs who would no doubt be screaming for blood. Or option three…

"I can't believe I am about to order this…" the Autarch thinks to himself and turns to regard his warhost assembled beneath the snow-bent boughs. His eyes unintentionally turn towards the newly recovered warrior of the Howling Banshee Aspect still nursing her bruised and broken ribs. Her replaying of her short conversation with the strange Mon'keigh sets him on edge as the Farseer's words come back to haunt him.

" _The Mon'keigh bring a demon of their own to this battle. A demon more machine than man in bearing, and more deadly than the greatest of their Astartes to our kind. Make him an ally and our craftworld shall weather the storm, anger him and we shall never have a moment's rest."_

"We shall...attempt to help the Imperials. If only to save ourselves."

* * *

Hunter grimaces as he counts out his remaining ammunition and for once wishes he had broken down and grabbed one of the Imperial Lasguns if only for the ammunition capacity. Down three magazines and possessing only another four on his person he only has enough for one more engagement, if that. So instead of his Battle Rifle he totes the longer and seemingly more delicate needle rifle finding a spot in the belltower to see from and using the scope to scan for the slightest disturbance while keeping his photo-reactive plates active. While normally he would be sweating his balls off from the heat being given off after keeping them running for so long he had the so-called "tech-priests" on the _Iron Heart_ modify the cooling unit to keep himself cool long after the original unit would have failed.

The delicate scope mounted along the upper rail whirs as he carefully adjusts the magnification to focus in on the slowly dissipating pillar of smoke rising from where the Chaos forces have landed. Memories of battles years past flash in his mind of holding the line while losing all support, the enemy growing stronger by the second before breaking upon them like a tide of fury and plasma. And of good men dying around him. This time...might be different. So while he is effectively invisible to the naked eye he sees everything.

Including a suspiciously familiar alien warrior-woman at the edge of the treeline.

"Ma'am, I have eyes on contact range two-hundred meters. Appears non-hostile."

" _Keep an eye on it, I don't trust these xenos. The Inquisitor seems to have had a vision from the Saint herself and wants to talk with them,"_ the cannoness in charge of the defences on the western section of wall replies bitterly. He can hear the scowl in her voice.

"Yes ma'am." His scope scans the trees around the female warrior instinctively knowing that she isn't alone. His caution is rewarded with the sight of a shimmering field in the branches above and to the left, something similar to what a Spec-Ops Elite would have been equipped with.

"Contact has company...permission to dirty his drawers ma'am?" An evil chuckle accompanies his request.

" _...granted."_ She replies with an audible smile. The crosshairs settle on the branch above the alien's shimmering cloak. His breathing is slow and even, his heart a steady drumbeat in his chest as his every fibre focuses on the shot. Everything fades around him until all of existence shrinks to the sight through his scope and the feel of the grooved trigger under the pad of his finger. Ever so slowly he applies pressure to the trigger. For those who have never shot long distance it is a strange concept to grasp that one does not _pull_ the trigger but merely presses down on it slowly with the very tip of his finger. Without warning the trigger gives suddenly beneath his finger and the rifle hisses quietly.

* * *

Olavara grumbles to herself as she stands _unarmed in the open_ before the unbroken Mon'keigh citadel. One of the Rangers accompanying the warhost offered to keep watch in the tree above and she accepted the offer as she waits to either be shot or met in the open by whatever representative the primitives decide to reach out with. The painful memory of her encounter with the self-anointed Demon is fresh in her mind as she feels her freshly healed ribs shift against the ointment smeared bandages wrapped around them beneath her armor.

Her eyes take in the red tinted sight of the, admittedly, imposing Imperial monastery with its leering gargoyles and winged Saints. The destroyed field between the trees and the wall are a stark contrast to the as yet unblemished walls...apart from the gate of course. A small smirk tugs at her lips at the memory of the Fire Prism melting their beautiful gate wide open and their mad scramble to plug the hole in their defences. As foolish as the females were they are equally brave and skilled...for Mon'keigh. But then the reinforcements arrived. The stormtroopers alone would be no real challenge compared to Astartes...but that one man that _butchered_ her sisters. He is something else.

So for some strange reason she is not surprised in the least when the Ranger above her releases an undignified squawk, no doubt audible on the walls two-hundred meters distant, and falls falt on his back beside her with a rush of air escaping his lungs. The shimmering cloak that was concealing him deactivates revealing a fair face temporarily frozen in a rictus of pain.

"I think he saw you."

* * *

" _That...was impressive Spartan,"_ the cannoness chuckles as the rest of the garrison almost breaks down in laughter at the "dignified" Eldar's indignant squawk.

"I live to please ma'am."

* * *

Inquisitor Reymose emerges from the monastery proper with a fierce scowl set in place. Hearing of the arrival of the hated foe's forces nearly sent him into a zealous rage much as it did the Battle Sisters around but that cold cloak of logic was once more draped across his shoulders. He knows that their forces no longer have the strength to repel a concentrated assault from a nearly full strength regiment. Not with the gates breached as they are, and with the monstrosities that the Archenemy so loves to send into the fray. The sound of a distant squawk is enough to give him pause and then catch the hints of the sniggering occurring beneath the full faced helms of the assembled Battle Sisters.

"What in the Emperor's name is happening on this world…"

" _I think that I'm adjusting. By the way your mic is on sir,"_ an undeniably smug voice that surprisingly belongs to the Spartan whispers in the Inquisitors ear nearly making him jump out of his skin.

"What have you done?"

" _...I may have made one of the aliens fall out of a tree."_

"I have no sane response to that. I'm going to make contact with the...xenos. I'd like you to be down here as escort."

" _Yes sir."_ The Spartan's rote response brings a small smile to the Inquisitor's face. Interpreting a suggestion as an order, would the rest of the Imperium's forces be such good soldiers. True to his word less than five minutes later the Spartan is standing at his elbow, black rifle cradled in his hands. A stormtrooper from first squad joins him on his other side puffing himself up ever so slightly so as to try and match the slightly taller Spartan in bulk… and failing miserably. The normally menacing crimson eyepieces have lost some of their effect when compared to the featureless mask covering the Spartan's face.

"Let me do all the talking and stay calm. Even if we meet in the open the Eldar are quite adept at laying traps in plain sight."

"Yes sir," the two soldiers respond in unison. Reymose nods and strides past the Rhino blocking the gate feeling the stern-faced Battle Sister on the pintle storm-bolter watching them the whole way. Their boots crunch against the dirty, soot stained snow with every step. Each crunch seems deafening in the oppressive silence and there are many to be made. The Inquisitor's eyes remain locked onto the pale armored figure standing at the tree line. Idly his thoughts turn to the blade resting in its sheath in one of the disabled and abandoned Rhinos in the courtyard for storage, and the Saint's instructions on whom to give it to. Well, he starts thinking on it until Hunter chuckles evilly next to him.

"What's so funny?"

"The alien with the cloak is back in the tree...and this time he's armed."

"...he wasn't before?"

"I don't think he was supposed to be there before."

"Ah...well don't shoot him yet."

"Can I shoot the branch he's standing on?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"...that's not a legitimate reason."

"Always works for a parent."

"You are _not_ my dad!"

" _Ahem!"_ a distorted voice interrupts before them dragging both of their eyes towards the alien before them. The Spartan merely sighs and settles back into his stiff but watchful stance, eyes secretly locked on the gently shimmering position that he knows an alien sniper is glaring at him from.

"What is it you want xenos?" Contempt drips from the Inquisitor's voice

"A truce of sorts. The Archenemy threatens us both...and neither of us can afford them to achieve their objective."

"And what _is_ their objective xenos?" the Inquisitor all but snarls. The Eldar simply seems to glare at the man for a moment before sighing.

"There is a demon within the monastery."

* * *

 _The human soul burns like a bonfire before the small ember attached to it's earthly coil. The pure malice radiating off of the small crimson core throbs as if it were a beating heart and grows ever so slightly. Deep within its comparatively fragile shell the being grins with the slightest tinge of madness._

" _Pathetic weaklings… your doom approaches and the bitch isn't here to save you this time." In the distance a tiny golden speck smiles in self satisfaction._

" _Oh...I've got something better in mind…"_

 **A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, shit's been happening. The next one will be longer and we'll start getting into the fight with Chaos.**


	8. Chapter 8

Price of a Mile

Spartan B-226 "Hunter". A supersoldier designed by some of the best minds the UNSC could call upon in the fires of the worst war in recorded history and baptised in flames of the same. Proficient in a half dozen martial arts forms, skilled in the use of every weapon in the UNSC's arsenal and almost as good as with those of the enemy. But at his core he is a suicide soldier meant to jump into the maw of death and explode from the other side in the flames of whatever was designated as needing to be destroyed. He knows that most of his brothers and sisters from Bravo Company are dead. And he knows that he will join them one day but right now…

The photo-reactive plates of his armor swirl to match his background as he stalks through the winter laden trees. The soft crunching of snow beneath his boots and those of Squad-Two is near deafening in his enhanced ears but he knows that there are few ODSTs who could move so quiet in such armor and with so much gear. Moving at the head of the formation Hunter scans every place that a threat could be hiding with the muzzle of his Battle Rifle, occasionally he catches a glimpse of the Eldar teams that were sent to accompany his own on the hit-and-run strikes that they hope will be able to bleed the Chaos army a little more and increase their chances of surviving. A low mechanical grinding of rattling treads reaches through the trees guiding them in on their target.

Hunter is not surprised to see troops a little above mutants in quality following behind the same model of transports he's seen Imperials use in a straggling clump that _vaguely_ resembles an advancing column. Wordlessly he uses hand signals to direct the squad of stormtroopers in position, grateful for the ease of changing from his training to the new signals due to their resemblance. The stormtroopers spread out easily leaving their slightly more heavily laden squadmate take a position near the center so that he has an unobstructed line of fire on the tank. The narrow tube of a single-shot rocket launcher is set on a wide shoulder and carefully aimed with years of experience. Hunter takes a deep breath and settles his rifle against the flank of the gnarly tree he has taken cover behind doing his best to steady his aim as he settles the crosshairs on the man holding a ragged banner high.

The Imperials wait quietly as their enemy stomps closer, their breaths forming clouds of white in the air above them. Not a single one suspects the death-dealers waiting in the trees, steady hands aiming their deadly weapons for the precise shot that is needed. At thirty meters the rocket bearer fires, the _whoosh-roar_ of the rocket's engine shattering the silence. The warhead slams into the Chimera's flank and detonates sending a molten cone of metal through the fuel cell and igniting it. The tank is cracked in half by the ensuing explosion immolating those following too closely and spraying the others with hot shards of metal.

Hellguns scream spitting searing white bolts of light into the shocked cultists. The coherent light beams sever limbs, punch straight through torsos and take the life of the one on the other side. The snow melts around the stormtroopers as their weapons begin venting heat to avoid melting their barrels. Hunter's rifle booms in single precise shots always finding the heart or the head the banner bearer being the first to suffer his aim, a screaming corrupt priest carrying a massive book being the second. 9.5mm slugs punch through skin, bone, and brains with ease and quickly reap a terrible toll among the madmen and in under thirty seconds the whole group is dead. Without waiting for orders the Stormtroopers rise and sprint back into the trees, their task completed. By the time the heretic column can react to the fact that their vanguard was hit the Eldar will be in position to exploit any holes.

* * *

Inquisitor Reymose smiles grimly as the sounds of combat are carried to him on the wind. The walls of the monastery are empty of the ranks of warriors that they would normally have during a time for war. Instead the Sisters are out in force forming small fast-moving units to strike at the flanks of the advancing army to trim their numbers instead of waiting for them on the walls like a Guard General would have had them be. His plan is so far going off without a hitch using the Imperium's forces to smash the vanguard before retreating and letting the Eldar and their lighter units cut the enemy. Bleeding them slowly before retreating back to the walls. In this the stormtroopers are better suited than the Battle Sisters thanks to their training in the art of skirmishing.

For it is that: an art. Stay engaged too long and your forces can become encircled or outright destroyed an no matter how many of the enemy are dead if you are too you've lost. Disengage too quickly and you haven't caused enough damage. And then there is the when, the how, the _where_ to hit each time. It's something that many commanders discard in this day and age: irregular fighters have often defeated massive armies simply by making them bleed over, and over, and over again.

"My lord, the Spartan's group has broken the western approach and is now withdrawing to the secondary point," Reymose's only companion, a vox operator, reports keeping one hand on the horn pressed to his ear. The Inquisitor nods and considers the situation. They've been bleeding all three prongs of the enemy's advance for the last few hours, taking a dozen men here or there to slow them down and weaken the final assault while suffering near non-existent losses in turn.

"Perhaps we can bleed them… but what of the demon in our midst?" he wonders aloud turning once more to regard the wrecked Rhino where he stored the Saint's sword. Where would the Demon be hiding? Those who call the Warp home can hide anywhere and the average man would have no idea of their presence. And as much as he would like to he cannot search every mind for fear of provoking the creature, or giving it access to his body as well. The Imperium can defeat any foe it faces on the field of battle but a fight for the soul? Who can truly guard against those poisonous but sweet words that seduced half of the Emperor's own sons?

Pale blue eyes take in the towering central building of the monastery and narrow ever so slightly at the chill that runs down his spine. A Demon hiding in the body of one of the Emperor's servants doing who knows what in a place of worship...generations of the Emperor's servants are turning over in their graves at the thought.

" _Emperor of Man grant your humble servant the strength to banish the Demon from your house. Grant me the skill to root him out, the breath to curse him, the strength to cast him from the shadow of your majesty."_

* * *

"Contact left!" Sergeant Falt bellows as he spins behind a tree a moment before searing red beams of light skewer the space he occupied a moment before. Hellguns shriek angrily and spit a blinding white barrage in return taking a brace of heretics with ease. The swarm of madmen ignores their losses and presses on trampling their wounded in their eagerness to close the gap. The Spartan calmly begins dropping the enemy with single shots, that deceptively advanced autogun of his claiming a life with every booming report. The rest of Squad-Two peppers the enemy with bursts of supercharged las-fire sending bodies tumbling into the snow with uncanny accuracy.

It's not enough to stop the maddened headlong charge. Twelve of them make it through the storm of las and slugs. Falt snarls angrily and whips the but of his rifle into the first one's head snapping the skull back. The Hellgun is swiftly brought to bear once more and pumps a searing beam through the man's heart. Only half of the heretics are dealt with by Stormtroopers...the rest lay bleeding at the Spartan's feet.

"Move! We need to get back _now!_ " Gears snarls as his weapon vents superheated steam into the air.

"Affirmative. Pull back...I'll buy you time," Hunter declares slapping a new magazine home. The stormtroopers stare at him for a moment in shock. Sacrifice is an honored and frequent theme in the Imperium but for one man to give his life for his comrades...it is always a difficult thing to contemplate.

"We're not leaving you to–"

"You're not leaving me anywhere. In all honesty you're slowing me down here. Cut me loose." The Sergeant blinks taking in the cold toneless voice, the utter confidence, as if he has already done it. That featureless golden faceplate turns to regard the stormtrooper giving away nothing of the younger man's expression but he can easily imagine the fierce flames of determination burning in his eyes.

"I'll be fine sergeant. Spartans never die." The armored form blurs as the camouflage suite in the suit's plates change to suit the environment and sprints off in an explosion of snow. The squad stares at the trees where their comrade disappeared into, dumbfounded by the sudden spike of speed displayed before them. The booming report of the Spartan's weapon reaches their ears moments later along with the screams of the cultists and their decision is made.

"Pull back to the monastery and pray. Pray that the Emperor is with him."

* * *

Hunter spins around a beam of white light and repays the cultist with a 9.5mm slug to the shooter's throat. Blood and bone explodes from the wound as the projectile shatters the spine on its passage through and then proceeds to punch a neat hole through the next man's body armor. The next three men fall in quick succession to single shots in vital areas, the Spartan wanting to be as efficient with his ammunition as possible. Super-human muscles propel him through the trees as he avoids a stream of bolter fire coming from the hull mount of the lead Chimera.

He mag-locks the battle rifle to his back and draws his pistol as he sprints around the vehicle in an arc. Lasfire heats the air around him and melts the snow at his feet but none of the shots are even close to hitting. The hatch on the transport's turret is flung open and a gasmask wearing crewman pops his torso out. Three shots cough from the pistol taking him in the chest and sending him tumbling to the turret's floor only a half second before Hunter leaps onto the side of the tank itself. A primed grenade appears in the Spartan's hand and is promptly thrown into the still open hatch a moment before the hatch is slammed shut over it. The charge's detonation is muffled by the layers of armor but the Spartan has already leaped clear and killed four more cultists.

A second grenade is flung effortlessly into a cluster of cultists that were packed a little too close together. Flesh, fragmented armor and blood is thrown in every direction yet not a single drop hits the Spartan's shimmering armor plates. A storm of shurikens rips through the trees and shreds another squad like fruit in a blender. Green armored figures appear silently from the shadows blades already hissing in anticipation, while crimson and white armored alien women charge screeching from the trees. Chainswords and naked blades cut through flesh and bone with startling ease even as pistols shriek in accompaniment. The Spartan can't help but admire the smooth transitions of the alien warriors, their supple forms seeming to dance through the sluggish mutated humans.

Then his inner competitiveness rears its head and his own efforts are redoubled. Cultists and mutated spawn fall to the soot streaked snow in bloody heaps in an ever increasing fashion. More and more of the slim alien soldiers emerge from the trees heralded by the wicked aim and power of their chosen weapons. Lasfire fills the air amidst the storm of screeching shurikens yet few actually strike.

" _It's almost like fighting with my brothers and sisters again,_ " Hunter muses as he takes cover behind a stalled transport to reload his weapons. A thunderous roar silences the battlefield for a moment and a spray of red mist splatters across Hunter's faceplate. He doesn't hesitate to wipe the mess from the smooth surface and immediately notices the corpses of one of the green armored aliens. Or, what's left of it anyways. The once smooth and strong chestplate is shattered exposing the white bone of the ribs beneath the flesh. Parts of the armor litter the snow all around the body, and one of the red jewels decorating the upper portion has begun to glow with a throbbing inner blue light. Intrigued, and silently shocked, for a moment he takes a peek around the still idling Chimera.

"Oh fuck…" he mutters to himself. Three massive figures stride through the smoke and flames wreathing the convoy. Crimson armor decorated in the same eye aching symbols as the cultists covers their towering forms in great slab-like plates. Snarling and laughing demon heads are wrought into the plates where the writing doesn't reach their eyes glowing menacingly. Incense smoke spills from the censors hanging at their hips and the exhaust vents of their reactor-backpacks. Horns rise curling from their helmets giving them a more demonic appearance aided by the crimson glowing lenses in place of eyes.

Their hands clasp monstrous weapons, bolters he remembers them, and direct the savage volleys of explosive rounds into the fading Eldar troops. Shurikens spark off of or simply get lodged into the impossibly hard armor plates. The Spartan feels his heart sink ever so slightly at the sight of the three colossuses advancing on him, their lips spewing litanies of hate from whatever unholy book they cling to.

"Come face us alien _scum!_ The Dark Gods thirst!"


	9. Chapter 9

A Hammer Blow

The stuttering roar of bolters slams into the Eldar with all the force of a battering ram. Colorful armor plates shatter as the rocket propelled explosive rounds find their mark with uncanny accuracy. Shurikens and volleys small missiles scream in retaliation only to be shrugged off by the thick plates of armor, barely scuffing the paint in their fury. The bolters spit in return taking an alien's life with every pull of the trigger. Hunter takes one look and does the one thing that all soldiers hate to do: retreat. Rifle locking to his back, enhanced muscle propels him back into the woods, bolts and lasfire chasing him back through the trees spraying his armor with splinters and shards of hot metal.

He moves faster than any mortal man easily reaching fifty kilometers per hour. The trees blur around him into one endless wall of brown. It's only thanks to his enhanced reflexes that he narrowly avoids danger. The world slows as adrenaline spikes through his veins and his brain kicks into overdrive...allowing him to drop into a baseball slide to avoid the massive gore soaked chainsword screaming for his neck. Monomolecular teeth spin through only air just a centimeter above his visor, close enough for him to see the viscera stuck between those same teeth. He slides farther than anyone should before springing to his feet and drawing his pistol.

The M6C/SOCOM fires a 12.7mmx40mm or .50 magnum round known in the manuals as M228 SAP-HP or semi-armor-piercing high-penetration. A round that has been shown to go through the battle plate worn by Sangheili and Jiralhanae warriors like wet paper within ten meters. In the hands of a skilled marksman it can extend that range to twenty five. In the hands of a Spartan it can be a veritable designated marksman rifle. The Chaos corrupted Astartes is seven meters away from Hunter, motionless as it roars its fury at missing its swing. His pistol blurs from the polymer holster, the safety snapping off and the iron sights settling on the once noble warrior's head.

The pistol coughs three times. The first slug slams into the helmet's cheek doing nothing more than scratching the paint. The second shatters against the brow doing nothing more than jerking its head back. The third however drills through the tiny eye-piece and into the transhuman's eye. It roars in pain as the round, deflected by both the eye-piece and the toughened hide of an Astartes, carves its path down the side of its head. It staggers and reaches for its eye and Hunter doesn't hesitate, ripping one of the magnetically locking krak grenades from his harness and priming it. He lets it cook for but a moment before throwing it so that it locks to the Astartes' leg. Snow flies through the air as Hunter kicks off once more. An explosion sends him tumbling through the snow head over heels through the snow. He whips around to see the Astartes charging through the smoke and steam without anything worse than soot staining its armor.

"You will pay mortal!" it roars furiously revving its chainsword. The teeth scream as they reach peak RPM promising naught but death and pain. The giant slides to a sudden stop as a trio of white armored figures suddenly appear from the shadows.

"No further servant of Chaos!" a high, clear voice declares as the three Banshees ready themselves for the coming battle.

"Weak xenos _whores!_ The Dark Gods will feast on your souls!" the fallen Angel snarls and charges forward. Hunter's eyes track the fight nervously as he swaps his pistol for his rifle knowing that he might as well be pissing on a wildfire for all the use that the weapon be against those thick armor plates. Shards of ceramite fly through the air as the Banshees deliver quick stinging strikes against their gargantuan foe, making a mockery of whatever skill he might possess with their sheer speed. They don't rely on the crushing blows of a human fighter but rather sting like a swarm of venomous insects. One blow rips the helm from its head revealing the snarling, weeping sore ridden, mutated features that replaced a once noble contenance.

The Spartan's eyes lock onto this weakness immediately battle rifle pressed to his shoulder. The glowing optic in the center of his scope settles on the exposed cranium as it roars in pain. Three 9.5x40mm rounds rip through the back of the fallen Astartes' head from its mouth. The behemoth freezes stiff for a moment as its brain registers the sudden damage, before it topples to the ground shaking the earth beneath Hunter's feet. All falls silent for a moment before one of the Banshee's turns to regard the Spartan, crimson lenses flashing as she regards him critically.

* * *

Olavara looks over the lone Mon'keigh taking in everything. From the more streamlined and ergonomic armor to the deadly slug thrower held in his ready hands and the long combat knife strapped to his thigh. A golden visor stares her down waiting for the slightest sign of danger, and she of all the Warhost knows just how deadly he can be at any range. Her fist tightens around the grip of her power sword in hesitation before she sheathes it at her side.

"Come Mon'keigh, the Fallen Ones cannot be far behind us."

"Affirmative, let's move," he replies mechanically and sprints off into the trees at speeds that put all other non-modified humans to shame. Despite herself, she grins beneath her helmet and chases after him with long graceful strides. She and her sisters quickly catch up to him only to witness him reach even higher speeds straining her like nothing else.

" _What is he?"_ she wonders for the hundredth time as her lungs begin to burn with the exertion. The mechanically powerful movements belay the skill and grace that she has seen him move with in the past. The trees suddenly part to reveal the black armored forms of the Imperial Stormtroopers that accompanied the strange Mon'Keigh. The primitive, if effective, laser rifles in their hands swivel around to regard them with the typical sluggishness of humanity. But then...if her speed had been put to shame by one such as this Spartan then who was she to judge?

" _No, humans will always be lesser than Eldar no matter what their priest shout at the masses,"_ her mind returns nearly instantly. It matters naught, as the Eldar break off to return to their own lines leaving the Imperials to return to their fortress monastery and hunker down.

* * *

Reymose can't help the blasphemy that slips through his lips as the first reports begin trickling in again since the Spartan and his team engaged the enemy. The presence of traitor Astartes sent the Battle Sisters into a near frenzy of zealous rage and they wanted desperately to ride out and face them in the open. A notion which only the liberal application of the Rosette on his chest and the soothing words of the head priest had shot down. This didn't stop the sisters from breaking out the heaviest weapons in their arsenal however and even now the towers are armed with sanctified missile launchers and multi-meltas.

"Where could this demon be hiding...what do the traitors hope to gain here?" he wonders aloud for the thousandth time as he pours over the updated pict-table denoting the approximate positions of the enemy lines and his own scattered squads. The picture: not looking very good for the Imperials and temporary allies. A full regiment of traitors and their mutant auxilia are within light artillery range and, if eye witness reports and the half dozen picts he was sent are to be believed, then there are easily two squads of traitor Astartes of the Word Bearer Legion accompanying them.

With just under four hundred Battle Sisters, initiates and Inquisitorial Stormtroopers to defend the battered walls there seems to be no hope. Not against the Astartes. Whole worlds have been reported to capitulate at the mentioning of just a hand full of the transhuman warrior monks, worlds that would have hardly batted an eye at whole armies of Imperial Guardsmen. He only stirs from his thoughts when the gates open with a squeal of abused metal admitting the few returning squads of Stormtroopers...and the Spartan. The super soldier brings both good _and_ bad news: with the death of the traitor Astartes he invigorates the garrison with tales of a mere mortal, if modified, slaying a demigod. At the same time the presence of such beings sends moral plummeting near rock bottom.

"If I may Inquisitor...the Saint was a vocal champion against the forces of Chaos in particular, more so than even is the norm. She led many forces against such foes and cultivated many enemies that...may have lived on after her demise," the head priest, a Cardinal by the name of Farone, supplies in the whimpering tone of one trying to avoid being berated by someone in a much higher position than he.

"Oh I don't doubt it Cardinal, I'm much more concerned with who among our ranks would be the host of such a creature. After all: this is a chapel devoted to a Saint. The Emperor's Holy Light is within every stone, every brick, every piece of glass in the chapel. One must wonder…" the Inquisitor trails off, a horrifying thought dawning on him as the Cardinal begins to change. The veteran Inquisitor has seen many things in his decades of service to the Imperium. From tiny bugs that could control a man by implanting itself within his skull, to the full horror of a demonic incursion. At every occurrence that has been orchestrated by the foul denizens of the Warp his senses have alerted him.

A shiver running down his spine, an odd smell in the air, a sound that borders on the edge of his hearing. Oh yes, one of his training and experience is still fallible yet in this case there can be no doubt.

"...what they promised you for your soul _heretic!_ " the Inquisitor spits venomously drawing his sword and plasma pistol with a flourish, both weapons humming with energy as he whirls around to regard the swiftly mutation Cardinal with an oath to the Emperor on his lips.  
 **A/N: I know this took forever to get out but schooling and the number of things that I have to deal with in the last few months has been asinine. However now that I have orders I can get a little bit more writing done than I could before. Hopefully I'll be able to ramp up production of this and a few other stories as time goes on.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Don't kill me! I sincerely apologize for how long this took and all I can say for it is: I got bored. Plot bunnies abound in this pointed head of mine so you can look at my profile for evidence of this fact. I'll be honest part of the boredom sprouted from the simple fact that I didn't know how to write the fight scene against the demon. It's hard to do those fights right because you can either make it too fast and easy (that's what she said) or it can end too abruptly it feels...unsatisfying. Which is also what she said. Enough of those jokes though you came for the chapter. If you want my advice when you get to the demon v. demon fight at the halfway mark, right as Hunter gets his new shiny toy, follow the music selection. Please. I promise it's fitting. I took inspiration for some of the demon's parts and abilities from the book** _ **Damnation of Pythos by David Annandale.**_

 **As a side note: I'm in C-school which is where I'm learning the specific system that I'll be working on. I'll spare you the official designation and just say I'm a part of the Navy's Geek Squad and the taxpayer is paying for it. So thank you all for the free college credits.**

* * *

Fear No Evil

Hunter has fought and killed every breed of the Covenant in his time. The horrors of the mutants that greeted him upon his arrival to this time were a new, disturbing experience. Not something to fear. Just a sickening _evil_ breed that needed to be killed so he could move on. The freaky space-wizard shit that the cult leader had at its disposal was a new experience but again he could adapt. The wave of... _wrongness_ that greet him and the Stormtroopers with him sends a roiling pit of unease straight to his stomach. Flamers spit gouts of oily flame at the massive twisted figure that stands at the center of the courtyard. Bolters roar and hellguns scream the fury of their wielders at their maximum fire rates. Flesh bubbles and bursts under the wrath of the Faithful.

Oaths to the Emperor fill the air spewing their hate of the Demon and the Heretic. They call upon their deity to lend them strength. Hunter never believed in God: what kind of deity would allow such constant suffering and death to haunt his people and still expect their love? Religion never had its place in his training or limited interactions with the other members of the UNSC. But here, before him in all its demented glory is a _true_ demon. Not the nickname foisted upon him by the fanatical aliens that worship the dead creators of advanced technology. Not the brimstone and hellfire fiction that has entertained mankind in novels and comics. A being formed of raw energy and corrupting flesh that _laughs_ in the face of the abuse its mortal shell endures. Flesh and bone knit themselves back together as soon as they are torn. Muscles swell with demonic power and bones snap into being forming two massive bat-wings that spread across the courtyard.

Purple and white fires smolder in place of eyes and promise pain beyond imagining. Tattered robes disintegrate in the fire but the staff clutched in a clawed hand, once bearing the Imperial Aquila, glows and shifts to represent the eight pointed star of Chaos. Waves of despair radiate from the demon taking shape on what was supposed to be hallowed ground. Hunter's training allows for no hesitation. There's a foe before you: kill it before it kills you. The simple survival instincts of a soldier. The booming report of his BR55 joins the more advanced weapons of the Inquisition and Sororitas, emptying an entire magazine of 9.5mm semi-armor piercing rounds into the form of the demon. It _laughs_ in response.

"Fools!" it barks. Then something happens. Reality tears asunder as a wave of power ripples from the head of the staff. Bodies are flung against stone walls and the unyielding flanks of tanks. Several are pitched from the wall to impact the ground below, their lives ending with a sickening _crack_ of ruptured armor and bodies. Blades of distorted space-time scythe through ceramite, flesh, and bone as if they never existed. Seventeen lives snuffed out as easily as a candle. Hunter adopts a new strategy. Recovering from his impromptu back-flop against solid ground faster than anyone else in the courtyard he sprints for a fallen weapon. His BR55 is hastily mag-locked to his back to take up the new weapon.

Its unfamiliar bulk throws him for a second but he adjusts and finds the trigger. The short three weeks between Hydratus and...what was the name of this world again? He shakes that idle thought off and sprints for the cover of a ruined Rhino. The Demon's laughter rings out as the gunfire suddenly slacks off. Oh it's not from shock or the need to let the villain monologue. It's for a reload. Hunter makes the first move. Interesting thing about meltaguns: they shoot what is basically a concentrated nuclear blast in a narrow stream intense enough to melt take armor like butter on the surface of a sun. And there's no recoil. The hiss of air and flesh. A flash of brilliant light and the demon's left torso ceases to exist. This catches its attention for a moment. Burning eye bore into the blank faceplate as both beings come to the same conclusion.

"Oh fuck—" The Spartan barely makes it back into cover before a blade of ruptured reality carves through the space that he occupied a tenth of a second before. A second and third carve through the Rhino's armor leaving nothing left. Hunter huddles down against the final remaining section as gunfire erupts once more. This time screams accompany the rattling bolters. The demon waves its staff in a lazy arc silencing half the guns in an instant. The Battle Sisters falling to pieces. Faith and armor availing them little in the face of overwhelming demonic strength. For the first time in his life the Spartan feels true despair.

" _Spartan, use the sword…"_ the Inquisitor's pained voice crackles in his ear. The man himself is leaning heavily against the shattered door leading further into the chapel with a tourniquet tied around his thigh to stem the bleeding in his leg. More blood leaks from a bandage wrapped around his skull where the demon's wing clipped him. His bolt pistol barks in a steady rhythm as a show of support though he knows it does nothing. A last spiteful act that soothes his soul. For now.

"What sword sir? There's at least seven!" the Spartan retorts and edges around the Rhino for another shot.

" _The one in the Rhino! It's what banished the demon the first time!"_

"Really!? I can't just shoot him until there's nothing left?" Hunter replies incredulously. Of all the things to kill the gigantic reality shattering demon it _has_ to be a sword? A long litany of curses spills from his lips as he stealthily creeps back around the Rhino to peek through the massive gaps between the thirds of the tank. There it sits: leaning against one of the bench seats as if the apocalypse wasn't raging just outside.

" _No! Only an artifact blessed in the eyes of the Emperor and the hands of the Saint can banish this creature! Just do it before more of its kind can be brought through or it kills us all!"_ Hunter sighs heavily and drops the meltagun. A missile that slams into the back of the demon's skull is enough to distract it for a moment. Hunter scrambles for the sword and curls around it praying to any deity that feels charitable that he escaped the demon's notice. Satisfied that his death isn't coming right this instant he examines the sword. The moment his hand touches the hilt he feels...strange. A warmth bathes the back of his hand as if a specter covered his hand with theirs.

' _He trusts you,'_ a woman's voice whispers in his ear. Calm and soothing like the hazy memories of his mother. Unbidden, his eyes slide shut for a moment. A smiling face, a soft touch, a few strands of black hair. His eyes snap open.

 **[Five Finger Death Punch: Fake]**

"No one lives forever right?"

He bursts from the ruined Rhino sword in hand hissing free of its sheath. The beautiful blade, untouched by the ages that it has sat in the shrine and still razor sharp, shines in the dull sunlight filtering through the clouds and the oily flames left by the Sororitas assault. The power field activates on instinct. Instinct guiding his thumb to the ignition stud on the crossguard. A shimmering power field flares into being along the three feet of high carbon steel. Cool blue light honing the edge to an impossible degree in an instant. His eyes lock on the demon.

Burning eyes whip around to glare into his very soul. He ignores it. A presence beyond that of a mortal's understanding, death and madness given form and feeling, presses down on his shoulders. He doesn't slow. The staff in the demon's clawed hand waves sending incredibly fast blades of ruptured reality screaming for his blood. He is already out of their paths. He detects a hint of surprise in the demon's eyes as he reaches top speed. Perhaps its hubris blinded it to his abilities. He doesn't pause to ponder its mistakes. His perception of time slows as the adrenaline rush takes over.

Enhanced senses pick up everything: the scent of his own sweat soaking into the padding of his helmet, the roar of weapons hammering the demon's broad back. Every bolt detonating within its flesh and every tongue of flame weakening it however imperceptibly. He can see the veins in the thin membranes of the demon's wings, and the grotesque sight of the eyes sprouting into being across its chest. Each and every one of them burns with madness and hatred. It personifies all that is wrong in the universe with the perversion of its very being. Hunter's legs coil as he leaps sword raised high. A rocket's sudden appearance saves him from death when it streaks past him and detonates against the demon's shoulder. The blow meant to cleave him in half flies wide of his armored form allowing the Saint's blade to kiss the demon's flesh.

It _screams_. Warp essence spills from the wound, short and shallow as it is. Ethereal wisps of smoke or mist shot through with purple and pink tones drifting free of the impossible's wound. Hunter lands heavily and flows into another strike. Skill not of his own guiding the blow to the back of the twelve foot tall demon's knee. Flesh that was never meant to exist bubbles and boils across the cyan energy field. More wisps of the being's origins taints reality but again he is moving. Just barely evading the scorpion tail that sprouts from the demon's back. The black chitin armored appendage is severed by an almost careless flick of the wrist. Three quick steps and he is clear of the still thrashing tail. Unimaginable force slams into his side sending the superhuman soldier flying through the air. Enhanced bone and muscle bruises along his side and titanium laminate armor plating cracks.

The ground slams into him three times recognisable only as a wave of pain crashing over his senses before he slides and comes to a stop against the curtain wall. _Pain_. Pain he hasn't felt since his augmentations. The Spartan-III might have a higher survival rate than the second generation but that doesn't translate to less pain. And this eclipses his body's forced growth and the surgeries by _far_. By some miracle the blade is still clenched in his fist when he manages to open his eyes.

" _You_...will _pay_ for that _mortal!"_ the demon bellows furiously and stomps towards him. Hunter frantically pushes down the pain and leaps to his feet. Ice flows through his veins as pain becomes a distraction nothing more. _The mission_. The mission is all. Kill the monster.

"Come and get me... _fuckface!_ " The demon bellows with a thousand voices and charges the Spartan with speed that no creature of that size should possess. Two more missiles slam into its back. The staff waves almost as if warding off a fly and two Stormtroopers die. Enhanced muscles propel him into a run outpacing the fastest olympic sprinter in the first three steps. The Saint's blade shines brightly as it nears its old foe as if the Saint herself is within its lattice of copper and steel. Hunter ducks under the staff, jinks past a clawed wing, and leaps over another. The demon's staff rises and ripples. The only warning Hunter gets before a tear in reality nearly decapitates him. As it is a quarter inch section of his helmet ceases to exist and every hair on his body stands on end. The Saint's blade flashes and carves a furrow along the demon's side from hip to armpit. It screams in pain.

" _Die!"_ it howls and rams its staff into the ground, raw power making the earth ripple like the surface of a lake. Hunter merely jumps over it and rams the Saint's blade up the hilt in the demon's chest before yanking dowards to the left. Impossible flesh parts like wet paper under the powerfield sheathed blade. The demon groans as its strength leaves its vessel and it slumps to its knees, hatred no match for the blessed instrument that plunders its flesh. Hunter pants and rips the blade free. A roar of effort and savage rage long suppressed tears free of his throat. The Saint's blade buries itself up to the demon's throat. A flash of light and the world is ripped from Hunter's mind.

* * *

Olavara smiles softly beneath her helm at the flash of released Warp energies sprouting over the battlements of the Mon'Keigh fortress. The Banshee and her sisters, accompanied by a squad of Scorpions, were told to watch over the fortress when the Demon emerged. The rest of Warhost is occupied harassing the Chaos forces still advancing on the monastery but this is the only part of this world's act that is of any value to the Eldar. She hardened her heart when the female's in their clunky power armor fell from the ramparts, and when they were eviscerated by the demon's power. Her War Mask seems to have faded with that strange Mon'Keigh's blow making her more...emotional during battle.

Her hand tightly grips the hilt of her blade as she stands from her position behind a snow bank and melts back into the forest knowing that her brothers and sisters are behind her. Their job is done here whether or not the Mon'Keigh survive the assault from their fallen kin the Craftworld is safe. However...there could be worse things in the galaxy than that strange human _surviving_ the coming battle. Much, _much_ worse.


End file.
